.JHk,  Jtf;       .JRk.    ..JRnHmag 


THE     PROMISES 
OF    ALICE 


BOOKS  BY 
MARGARET  DELAND 

THE  PROMISES  OF  ALICE 

THE  AWAKENING  OF  HELENA  RICHIE 

THE   RISING   TIDE 

AROUND   OLD   CHESTER 

THE   HANDS  OF   ESAU 

OLD   CHESTER  TALES 

AN  ENCORE 

DR.   LAVENDAR'S   PEOPLE 

GOOD   FOR   THE    SOUL 

PARTNERS 

R.    J.'S -MOTHER  8vo 

THE   COMMON   WAY 

THE      IRON   WOMAN 

THE   VOICE 

THE   WAY   TO   PEACE 

WHERE  THE  LABORERS  ARE  FEW 


HARPER  &   BROTHERS,    NEW   YORK 
ESTABLISHED    1817 


T)ut  he  thought  it  would  be  right  for  her  to  be  true  to  her 
promise  to  Neely. 


PROMISES    OF   ALICE 

The  Romance 
of  a  New  England  Parsonage 


By 
MARGARET  DELAND 

Author  of 

"The  Iron  Woman"  "The  Awaken 
ing  of  Helena  Richie"  etc. 


With  Illustrations  by 
HAROLD   BRETT 


Harper    85    Brothers    Publishers 
New  York    and    London 


PS 


p 


THE  PROMISES  OF  ALICE 


Copyright,    1919,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  August,  1919 


TO 
LOR1N 

THIS 

THE   BOOK   HE   HELPED    ME   WRITE. 
IN  OUR    LAST  WINTER   TOGETHER 

MAY  2ND,  1917 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

But  he  thought  it  would  be  right  for  her  to  be 

true  to  her  promise  to  Neely Frontispiece 

She  repeated,  in  a  small,  trembling  voice,  word 

for  word  as  her  mother  spoke  it,  a  "  Vow  "  Facing  p-  10 

"  I  might  have  saved  souls,"  she  said,  briefly; 

then,  in  spite  of  her  happy  color,  she  sighed  "  52 

Across  the  Common  lights  pricked  out  of  the 
shadows.  A  little  vagrant  dog  came  and 
leaned  his  head  on  Alice's  knee.  She  stroked 
his  ears  absently "  110 


THE     PROMISES 
OF    ALICE 


THE    PROMISES 
OF    ALICE 

CHAPTER   I 

THE  village  of  West  Meadows  climbed 
the  sunny  flank  of  one  of  Vermont's 
green  mountains.  At  the  head  of  Main 
Street,  looking  out  over  the  valley,  was  the 
meeting-house;  there  was  an  old  graveyard 
behind  it,  and  in  front  two  wineglass  elms, 
whose  lacy  shadows  swung  back  and  forth 
across  the  white  columns  of  the  porch. 
Next  to  the  church  was  the  parsonage, 
grayed  by  the  weather  of  nearly  a  hundred 
years,  and  with  a  thatch  of  Virginia  creeper 
— rustling  green  in  the  summer,  crimson  in 
the  autumn — spreading  half-way  across  its 
mossy  old  roof. 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

William  Alden  had  been  called  to  the 
West  Meadows  church  just  as  he  completed 
his  course  in  the  theological  school.  The 
very  day  the  "call"  came,  he  proposed— 
seeing  his  future  assured  —  to  a  pretty 
cousin,  Mary  Alden,  who,  to  his  astonish 
ment,  refused  him  emphatically.  She  said 
she  wasn't  good  enough  to  be  a  minister's 
wife,  and  she  didn't  like  the  idea,  anyhow. 
"I  want  to  be  free  to  talk  in  my  own  way. 
If  I  should  say  'darn  it'  all  the  old  maids 
in  your  church  would  hold  up  their  hands! 
No,  William;  I'm  fond  of  you,  but  I  won't 
marry  a  parson!" 

That  was  in  the  late  'seventies,  when 
"darn  it"  really  was  shocking.  So  William, 
who  was  perhaps  not  very  wildly  in  love- 
he  was  never  "wildly"  anything! — admitted 
to  himself  that  she  was  probably  wise  in 
saying  that  she  wasn't  fitted  to  be  a  min 
ister's  wife.  "I  won't  urge  her.  I  won't 
interfere  with  what  she  thinks  is  right," 
he  thought,  sadly ;  and  submitted  without 
further  protest,  except  to  say — as  probably 
every;  other  rejected  lover'  in  the  world 

[2] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

has  said, — that  he  was  "done  with  all 
women !" 

A  month  later  he  made  an  exception  in 
favor  of  one  woman — a  saintly  girl  who 
never  dreamed  of  saying  "darn  it,"  and 
who  was  solemnly  willing  to  be  a  parson's 
wife.  So  again  he  fell  into  rather  placid 
love. 

He  married  his  austerely  good  and  lovely 
Ellen,  and  brought  her  to  his  first  charge, 
which,  as  things  turned  out,  was  his  last, 
too!  For  the  parsonage  was  comfortable, 
and  his  study  large  and  sunny,  and  the 
church  donated  a  horse  and  buggy,  and 
Mrs.  Alden  was  such  a  wonderful  young 
housekeeper  that  she  made  both  ends  of 
his  small  salary  meet — so  why  shouldn't 
he  have  ended  his  days  there?  At  any 
rate,  he  did. 

Yet  a  country  parish  was  not  what  his 
Ellen  expected  when  his  heart,  caught  on 
the  rebound,  fell  into  her  small,  cool  hands. 
Then  she  hoped  that  West  Meadows  was 
only  a  first  step  to  a  far  more  important 
work  in  saving  souls;  she  told  him  so,  in 

[3] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

the  early  days  of  their  marriage,  very 
often. 

"We  will  go  to  China  as  missionaries, 
William!"  she  used  to  say;  and  the  exalted 
look  in  her  clear,  unhumorous  eyes  made 
him  so  humble  that  he  was  ashamed  to  say 
how  much  he  liked  West  Meadows,  and  his 
sunny  study,  and  his  big,  rangy  Kentucky 
horse,  and  the  friendly  people  who  were  so 
patient  with  his  easy-going  ways  and  his 
constitutional  inability  to  denounce  people 
who  did  not  agree  with  him  on  points  of 
doctrine.  He  was  ashamed  to  confess  to 
his  wife  that  he  didn't  like  to  leave  what 
she  called  the  "fleshpots."  But  he  was 
still  more  ashamed  of  another  feeling,  which 
he  would  not  confess,  even  to  himself: 

"I  don't  like  to  interfere  with  other 
people's  religions." 

Of  course  this  was  no  sentiment  for  a 
clergyman  to  entertain!  So,  when  Mrs. 
Alden  talked  of  missionary  work  he  agreed, 
hastily : 

"Yes;    sometime  we'll  go  to  China." 

But  as  the  months,  and  then  the  years, 

[4] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

passed,  Ellen  Alden  stopped  speaking  of 
the  conversion  of  China.  Her  passionately 
devout  mind  could  not  understand  his  mild 
tolerance  of  "other  people's  religions."  He 
seemed  to  her  just  lazily  indifferent  and 
given  up  to  comfort.  So  her  spiritual 
ambition  for  him  died. 

How  does  a  woman  feel  when  her  husband 
lets  slip  some  high  endeavor  she  has  ex 
pected  of  him?  But  we  need  not  go  into 
that,  because  this  story  is  not  about  Mrs. 
Alden.  It  is  about  her  one  child,  Alice, 
born  after  six  years  of  married  life.  During 
those  years,  that  thwarted  ambition  about 
China  must  have  deepened  and  deepened, 
for  when,  at  last,  Alice  came,  it  saw  its 
chance  and  leaped  into  fulfilment: 

The  baby  should  be  a  missionary! 

She  did  not  wait,  as  Hannah  did  with 
"little  Samuel,"  until  "the  child  was 
weaned,  and  she  might  go,  with  the  ephah 
of  flour,  the  bullocks,  and  the  bottle  of 
wine,  to  the  house  of  the  Lord  in  Shiloh." 
When  Alice  was  scarcely  an  hour  old,  and 
they  laid  the  tiny  bundle,  with  its  glimpse 
2  *  [5] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

of  puckered  red  face,  in  her  shaking  arms, 
she  lifted  the  baby  and  gasped  out:  "For 
this  child  I  prayed  .  .  .  and  the  Lord  hath 
given  me  .  .  .  my  petition;  therefore  I  lend 
her  to  ...  the  Lord.  As  long  as  she  .  .  . 
liveth,  she  shall  be  lent  to  ...  the  Lord." 

Her  husband,  leaning  over  her,  agonized 
still  because  of  the  long  night  of  birth,  was 
ready  enough  to  echo  the  vow,  just  as  a 
thank  offering  that  the  mother  had  been 
spared. 

Exactly  how  the  child  was  to  be  lent 
to  the  Lord  seemed,  in  those  first  days,  a 
detail.  But  as  Mrs.  Alden  got  well,  and 
the  small  red  face  grew  pink,  and  the 
puckers  smoothed  into  lovely  baby  flesh, 
she  told  him  what  that  dedication  meant. 
At  which  he  winced  a  little.  "7  failed 
her,"  he  said  to  himself;  but  aloud  he 
only  said,  drolly,  that  he  should  call  the 
child  Samuel. 

As  Alice  grew  up  into  a  leggy  and  speech 
less  little  girl  his  wife  would  remind  him, 
gently:  "Alice  is  to  be  a  missionary, 
William." 

[6] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

And  he  always  said:  "Oh  yes.  Yes, 
indeed!" 

Then  he  would  quiz  his  silent  Alice: 
"Won't  it  do,  Sam,  if  I  wear  a  pigtail  and 
let  you  preach  at  me?" 

But  it  was  all  so  far  away  that  time  when 
"Samuel"  should  make  up  for  her  father's 
failure  and  preach  to  the  wearers  of  pig 
tails,  that  William  Alden  took  her  proposed 
career  rather  lightly.  "If  she  wants  to  be 
a  missionary,  /  won't  interfere!"  he  used 
to  say  to  himself.  And,  prompted  by  his 
wife,  he  was  careful,  at  family  worship,  to 
pray  for  Alice's  sanctification  for  her  high 
calling, 

So  this  was  how  it  came  about  that,  as 
far  back  as  the  conscientious,  uncommuni 
cative  little  girl  could  remember,  her  future 
was  clear  before  her.  Her  mother  whispered 
it  into  her  baby  ears ;  her  father  mentioned 
it  at  family  prayers;  the  congregation 
of  the  West  Meadows  church  gave  her  as 
Christmas  presents  appropriate,  and  rather 
terrifying  books  of  missionary  memoirs; 
Cousin  Mary  Alden,  who  generally  spent 
[7] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

her  summers  with  them,  said  Alice  must 
be  sure  to  send  her  a  box  of  tea  when  she 
got  over  to  China;  and  Neely  Henderson, 
who  lived  on  the  other  side  of  the  meeting 
house,  used  "being  a  missionary"  as  a  plot 
for  the  games  he  and  she  played  among 
the  slate  headstones  in  the  burying-ground. 
Alice  was  always  the  heroine  of  these  games. 
She  was  tortured  by  African  tribes,  buried 
alive  by  Patagonians,  sliced  into  one-inch 
pieces  by  the  Chinese. 

More  than  once  the  Henderson  or  Alden 
family  had  had  to  come  to  her  rescue — as 
when,  one  September  day,  Neely  felt  it 
necessary  to  tie  her  to  a  stake,  and  light — 
he  said — "just  a  teeny  weeny  fire."  Mr. 
Alden  caught  him  red-handed — Alice  roped 
to  one  of  the  elms  in  front  of  the  meeting 
house,  and  Neely  heaping  brush  about  her 
knees !  Of  course  the  youngster  learned  the 
weight  of  the  ministerial  hand  —  which 
moved  Alice  not  only  to  tears,  but  to  what 
was,  for  her,  quite  a  long  speech : 

"Neely  wouldn't  'a'  let  me  get  burned 

entirely  up.    We  were  playing  martyrs.    I 
18] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

wanted  to  know  if  I  could  be  a  martyr.  I 
won't  have  Neely  hit!"  she  sobbed. 

But  Mr.  Alden  only  said  to  the  bewildered 
boy:  " Be  off  with  you!  Don't  let  me  hear 
of  any  more  such  doings!"  Then  he  took  his 
little  girl's  hand  and  said,  under  his  breath, 
"I'd  like  to  see  some  old-fashioned  naughti 
ness  in  you,  Samuel!"  Opening  his  own 
front  door,  he  paused  on  the  threshold  and 
called,  loudly,  "Ellen!" — he  was  one  of 
those  men  who  always  call  their  wife's  name 
the  minute  they  enter  the  house — "Ellen!" 

"Yes,  William,"  came  the  calm  voice. 

"Look  here !  Don't  let  Sam  play  with  that 
Henderson  boy.  He  has  too  much  imagina 
tion.  Good  heavens!  If  I  hadn't  come  up 
at  that  minute — " 

"What  were  you  playing,  Alice?"  Mrs. 
Alden  asked,  coming  out  into  the  hall  to 
hang  up  her  husband's  coat  and  take  off 
Sam's  rubbers. 

"Missionaries,"  Alice  said,  faintly. 

"I'm  afraid  you  don't  get  your  taste  in 
games  from  your  daddy,  Alice,"  William 
Alden  said,  ruefully;  and  then,  a  little  im- 

[9] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

patiently,  "Why  doesn't  she  play  Indians  or 
pirates,  Ellen,  as  Mary  and  I  did  when  we 
were  children?" 

As  between  missionaries  and  pirates,  Mrs. 
Alden  had  no  preference;  she  only  took  her 
little  girl  in  her  arms  and  whispered  that  for 
as  long  as  she  lived  she  was  "lent  to  the 
Lord,"  to  do  His  work  in  saving  souls. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Alice,  her  lip  shaking. 
"But — I'm  afraid  I  won't — won't  like  being 
a  missionary — very  much?" 

It  was  the  first  time  that  the  bottled-up 
nature  had  spoken  out;  but  Mrs.  Alden,  in 
her  passion  of  consecration,  heard  nothing 
in  the  words  but  the  fancies  of  a  child. 

"Well,  don't  play  martyrs,  dear.  You 
might  have  been  burned!"  she  said. 

"I  wanted  to  know  whether  I  cou/cf  be," 
Alice  insisted,  in  a  low  voice.  She  was  still 
trying,  painfully,  to  open  her  gentle,  literal 
soul  to  her  mother.  ' '  Missionaries  are  pretty 
often  martyrs,"  she  said.  "I — I  just  won 
dered  if  I — "  Her  voice  trailed  into  silence. 

Mrs.  Alden's  soul  was  literal,  too,  so  even 
her  heavenly  remoteness  was  stirred  by  the 

[10] 


Ohe  repeated,  in  a  small,  trembling  voice,  word  for  word  as 
^    her  mother  spoke  it,  a  'c/roct'." 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

child's  danger:     "Indeed  you  could  have 
been  burned — in  that  cotton  frock!" 

However,  there  were  no  more  missionary 
games  as  trials  of  Alice's  endurance.  Very 
shortly  after  the  attempted  auto-da-fe  the 
Hendersons  left  West  Meadows,  and,  de 
prived  of  Neely's  imagination,  Alice's  ideas 
about  her  career  were  fed  only  on  missionary 
reports — stories  of  splendid  heroism  and 
enthusiasm,  which  kept  the  flame  of  pur 
pose  burning  in  her  little  conscience.  But 
under  the  flame  there  was  a  shiver,  for  once 
or  twice  she  had  come  upon  stories  of  en 
durance  of  suffering,  pictured  so  vividly  that 
they  had  left  scars  of  terror  on  her  mind. 

In  spite  of  the  scars,  one  night,  when  she 
was  about  fifteen,  she  knelt  by  her  mother 
in  the  moonlit  darkness  of  her  bedroom,  and 
repeated,  in  a  small,  trembling  voice,  word 
for  word  as  her  mother  spoke  it,  a  "vow" 
that  she  would  "give  her  life  to  the  saving 
of  souls." 

When  Cousin  Mary  heard  of  this  she 
looked  a  little  doubtful.    "Isn't  she  rather 
young  to  make  vows?" 
[ii] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"  Not  vows  to  the  Lord,"  said  Mrs.  Alden. 

Mr.  Alden  frowned  in  a  vaguely  troubled 
way.  "I  am  inclined  to  agree  with  Mary," 
he  said;  "but  of  course  you  must  do  what 
you  think  is  right,  Ellen."  He  was  so  in 
capable  of  objecting  to  anything  anybody 
thought  "right,"  that  this  was  his  only 
protest.  So  the  "vow"  stood. 

And  on  the  whole,  as  he  had  failed  his 
wife,  he  was  glad  that  Alice  was  going  to 
give  her  what  she  wanted — "some  time." 
The  time  was  so  indefinitely  far  off  that  he 
very  rarely  thought  of  it.  What  he  did  think 
was  that  if  he  lived  to  be  as  old  as  Methuse 
lah  he  would  never  be  as  good  as  Ellen! 
Once  he  even  admitted  to  himself  that  he 
almost  wished  she  was  made  of  common 
clay,  like  himself,  or  Mary! 

"I  can  imagine  that  Satan  would  be 
very  uncomfortable  in  heaven,"  he  said 
to  Miss  Alden;  and  they  both  laughed, 
but  Mrs.  Alden"  looked  gently  blank  and 
grieved.  Afterward,  the  two  sinners  re 
proached  themselves  for  their  flippancy; 

flippancy  was   almost   profane  in   Ellen's 
[12] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

serene  presence,  so  fixed  were  her  mind  and 
soul  on  that  heaven  in  which  Satan  would 
have  been  "uncomfortable." 

As  for  Alice,  her  vow  steadied  her.  There 
is  a  certain  relief  in  being  committed  to  a 
thing,  even  if  you  don't  like  it.  She  used  to 
say  to  herself  that  she  was  one  who,  swearing 
to  her  own  hurt,  could  not  change.  She 
never  said  so  to  any  one  else ;  consequently — • 
as  is  always  the  case  when  the  lips  of  the 
heart  are  dumb — she  suffered.  As  she  grew 
older  there  were  many  nights  when  she  lay 
awake  staring  into  the  darkness  and  saying 
under  her  breath,  "  Can  I  do  it?"  Sometimes 
her  faith  answered,  triumphantly,  "Yes!" 
But  sometimes  poor  human  nature  shivered 
and  said,  " I  made  a  vow;  so  I've  got  to!" 

By  the  time  she  was  seventeen  her  future 
was  as  inevitable  to  her  as  it  was  to  her 
mother,  and  indeed  to  everybody  in  West 
Meadows.  Even  the  occasional  "Ex 
change"  knew  about  it,  and  would  congratu 
late  her  solemnly  upon  her  consecration. 

"The  fields  are  white  with  the  harvest, 
my  dear  child,"  one  of  these  good  men  re- 

[13] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

marked;  "and  the  Lord  will  bless  you  in 
your  undertaking.  May  He  give  you  cour 
age  to  endure,  even  unto  the  end — be  it 
of  hardships  only,  or  the  bitter  pangs  of 
martyrdom." 

Alice,  whitening  silently,  said,  "Yes,  sir;" 
— and  crept  away  to  her  own  room,  almost 
sick  at  her  stomach  with  fright.  But  she 
never  said  so.  Instead,  she  listened  to 
Mrs.  Alden's  anxiety  as  to  just  how  she  was 
to  be  trained  for  her  work.  For,  after  all, 
you  can't  convert  the  heathen — and  nowa 
days  you  are  not  supposed  to  try  to — unless 
you  have  a  fairly  sound  education  to  start 
with.  And  education — above  the  public- 
school  type — means  money.  Mrs.  Alden 
had  been  saving  for  this  ever  since  she  had 
"lent  her  child  to  the  Lord " ;  but  a  country 
minister's  wife  can't  save  much. 

It  was  then  that  Cousin  Mary  Alden 
came  to  the  rescue.  She  had  arrived  for  her 
usual  summer  in  West  Meadows,  and,  listen 
ing  to  Mrs.  Alden's  hopes  and  anxieties, 
and  hearing  Mr.  Alden  pray — when  he  re 
membered  it — that  "the  child  of  this  house 

[14] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

may  carry  light  into  the  dark  places  of  the 
earth,"  her  own  savings  began  to  burn  a  hole 
in  her  pocket.  She  and  Alice's  mother  talked 
it  all  over.  .  .  .  She  was  told  just  what  the 
desired  education  would  cost,  and  of  a  fruit 
less  effort  to  provide  for  it  by  an  appeal  to 
Mrs.  Alden's  bachelor  brother  in  California, 
for  money  "to  send  Alice  to  China  as  a 
missionary." 

The  Californian's  irreverent  answer  made 
Mary  Alden  laugh:  "  If  your  girl  will  un 
dertake  to  convert  the  Christian  Chinee 
back  to  the  faith  of  his  fathers,  I'll  hold 
up  both  hands — and  then  put  them  in 
my  pockets  for  her."  Miss  Alden  had 
laughed,  but  the  eyes  of  Alice's  mother  had 
filled  with  tears.  And  that  was  how  it 
happened  that  Cousin  Mary  knew  just  how 
much  money  was  needed,  and  how  much — 
or,  rather,  how  little — lay  in  the  savings- 
bank;  and  what  that  little  represented  of 
self-denial  and  devotion. 

Knowing  all  these  things,  when  the  time 
came  for  her  to  go  back  to  her  little  house 
in  Boston,  she  went  into  the  Rev.  William 

[15] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

Alden's  study,  which  smelled  of  tobacco  and 
leather  bindings,  and  put  a  check  into  his 
hands. 

"William,"  she  said,  "I  never  felt  much 
call  to  do  anything  for  the  world  but  behave 
myself — as  well  as  I  knew  how.  And  I  never 
thought  much  about  missions.  But  Ellen  is 
such  a  saint  I'd  rather  help  her  send  Alice 
to  China  than  go  to  Europe  myself — which 
is  what  I've  been  saving  up  for,  like  the 
selfish  wretch  I  am !  I  know  Alice's  heart  is 
set  on  it,  too.  So  I  want  you  to  take  this 
thousand  dollars  and  send  her  to  some  girls' 
college,  where  she  can  be  properly  edu 
cated." 

There  was  a  moment  of  stunned  silence. 
For  all  he  had  called  his  daughter  "Sam," 
and  prayed  dutifully  that  she  might  do  the 
Lord's  work,  the  idea  of  Alice's  leaving 
home  had  never  been  a  reality  to  Alice's 
father. 

"But,  Mary,"  he  remonstrated,  "so  large 
a  sum!  You — you  mustn't—  he  stam 
mered  ;  then  he  went  to  the  door  of  his  study 
and  called,  sharply,  "Ellen!" 

[16] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"Yes,  William,"  came  the  quiet  answer. 

"Come  down-stairs!  Mary  needs  looking 
after.  She's  throwing  checks  around!" 

Mrs.  Alden  came  into  the  study,  a  little 
pale,  but  with  shining  eyes.  "Yes,"  she 
said;  "I  know  what  Mary  is  going  to  do." 

"But  we  must  not  accept — " 

His  wife  laid  a  small,  thin  hand  on  his 
lips.  "She  is  not  giving  the  money  to  us, 
William;  she  isn't  even  giving  it  to  Alice. 
She  is  lending  it  to  the  Lord!"  It  seemed  as 
if  a  torch  was  burning,  behind  her  eyes ;  her 
whole  face  was  illuminated.  "Oh,"  she  said, 
"'This  is  the  Lord's  doing;  and  it  is  mar 
velous  in  our  eyes!"  Her  lips  twitched 
with  emotion.  "You  must  tell  Alice,  Will 
iam,"  she  said,  brokenly;  "I — I  can't." 

She  turned  swiftly,  and  they  heard  her 
run  up-stairs  and  close  and  bolt  the  door 
of  her  own  room.  Her  husband  and  Cousin 
Mary  looked  at  each  other. 

"What  old  sinners  we  are,  William,  you 
and  I!"  said  Mary  Alden,  in  an  awed  voice. 
"We  couldn't  offer  up  the  child  like  that!" 

"/  couldn't,"  he   said,  heavily; — "even 

[17] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

though  she  wants  to  be  offered  up.  But 
Ellen  hasn't  a  thought  of  what  Alice's  going 
will  mean  to  her.  She's  on  her  knees  now, 
thanking  God  for  her  own  loss.  Oh  yes,  I'm 
a  sinner,  and  I've  always  disappointed  her; 
but  Alice  will  make  it  up  to  her." 

Still  holding  the  generous  check  in  his 
fingers,  he  walked  over  to  the  window  and 
stared  with  unseeing  eyes  at  a  spray  ot 
Virginia  creeper  falling  from  the  eaves  and 
swaying  back  and  forth  in  the  soft  wind; 
beyond  was  the  church,  gleaming  white 
through  the  lacy  foliage  of  the  wineglass 
elms. 

Alice  was  to  go  away! 

For  a  moment  he  had  a  curious  sense  of 
being  afraid  of  his  wife ;  afraid  of  her  single 
terrible  passion  —  the  saving  of  souls  !- 
which  had  brought  this  thing  about.  He 
wished  Mary  had  kept  her  money.  But  no; 
it  would  have  happened,  anyhow.  Alice 
and  Ellen  were  both  entirely  determined. 
Mary's  kindness  only  made  things  easier  for 
them.  And,  of  course,  if  Alice  was  going  to 
do  this  great  thing — "it  is  a  great  thing," 

[18] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

he  told  himself,  wretchedly — a  sound  edu 
cation  was  necessary.  "Ellen  shall  have  her 
way,"  he  said,  under  his  breath;  "I  won't 
interfere."  Then  he  flung  back  to  his 
cousin,  over  his  shoulder,  "  Tell  Sam  your 
self,  Mary." 

Miss  Alden  felt  a  sudden  misgiving. 
"But,  William,  you  want  her  to  be  a  mis 
sionary,  don't  you?" 

"Why,  of  course,  of  course!"  he  said,  im 
patiently.  He  turned  away  from  the  win 
dow,  and  she  saw  that  he  was  pale.  "Even 
if  I  didn't,  I  wouldn't  interfere  with  what 
Ellen  and  Alice  feel  is  right.  It  has  been 
the  dream  of  Ellen's  life.  I  failed  her,  you 
know.  The  fleshpots  of  West  Meadows,  I 
suppose.  .  .  .  Yes ;  she  has  built  everything 
on  Sam's  devotion  to  the  cause — and  Sam, 
fortunately,  will  never  fail  her." 

Cousin  Mary  looked  troubled.  "I  hope 
I  haven't  been  officious.  I  thought — " 

"'Officious'!"  he  said.  "My  dear  girl, 
you  are  atoning  for  me!  And  Alice  will  be 
crazy  with  happiness.  But — I  wish  she 
wouldn't  go  so  far  away.  I  don't  know  why 

[19] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

Ellen's  eye  has  always  been  on  China.  For 
my  part,  I  think  there  are  darker  places 
than  China — and  some  of  them  are  quite 
near  home,  too!  As  for  taking  light  to  the 
Chinese,  they  have  a  pretty  fair  tallow  dip 
of  their  own." 

Miss  Alden  was  silent. 

"  You  go  and  tell  Sam  of  your  great  kind 
ness  to  us,  Mary,"  he  said. 

She  nodded  and  left  him,  her  uneasiness 
not  quite  banished.  However,  it  disappeared 
in  the  joy  of  telling  Alice.  She  saw  the  em 
bryo  missionary,  coming  over  from  the 
church  where  she  had  been  practising  the 
anthem  for  the  next  day,  and,  hailing  her, 
they  went  back  together  and  sat  down  on 
a  lichen- covered  tombstone  which  stood  like 
a  table  under  a  blossoming  locust-tree. 

Alice's  gray  eyes,  gazing  vaguely  down 
the  sunny  valley  and  over  at  the  shadows 
drifting  up  Ascutney,  suddenly  dilated  with 
attention : 

" — 'educated,  so  that  I  can  be  a  mis 
sionary'?"  she  interrupted,  breathlessly. 

"Yes.    And  I  am  perfectly  delighted  to 

[20] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

have  a  finger  in  the  pie.  But,  Alice,  promise 
me  you  won't  think  the  white  race  is  God's 
only  child,  and  the  yellow  and  black  people 
are  just  stepchildren !  He  doesn't  love  us  for 
our  complexions!  As  I  look  at  it,  we  all 
worship  the  same  God,  no  matter  what  we 
call  him.  What  is  that  poem? 

'Father  of  all!  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime  adored — 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage — 
Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord!' 

I  always  liked  that  idea.  Personally  I  don't 
think  I'd  enjoy  being  a  missionary,  except 
for  the  chance  to  see  strange  countries  and 
to  teach  the  people  to  use  soap  and  water. 
I'd  like  that!  And  cleanliness  would  be  as 
good  for  their  souls  as  Bibles.  Do  teach 
them  to  be  clean,  Alice." 

In  her  vision  of  all  the  scrubbing-brushes 
and  soap  and  Bibles  which — through  Alice 
—her  thousand  dollars  would  incite  the 
heathen  to  use,  and  the  joy  that  the  child's 
devotion  would  bring  to  Ellen,  Miss  Alden 
saw  in  Alice's  blank  amazement  nothing 
but  speechless  gratitude. 

3  [21] 


CHAPTER   II 

WHEN  they  got  back  to  the  parson 
age — Cousin  Mary's  head  high  with 
the  satisfaction  of  having  done  a 
pretty  big  thing — Alice  ran  up  to  her  own 
room  and  bolted  the  door.  Then  she  stood 
still  and  breathed  hard.  It  seemed  as  if 
something  gripped  her  heart  and  squeezed 
it.  She  sat  down,  feeling  a  little  faint.  If 
only  she  could  have  cried  out,  "Please,  I 
don't  want  to  be  a  missionary!"  But  she 
had  never  been  able  to  cry  out.  And  be 
sides,  what  difference  would  it  make?  She 
had  vowed.  .  .  .  All  she  could  do  was  to 
kneel  down  by  her  bed  and  say  over  and 
over,  "  O  God,  please  make  me  want  to  go !" 
But  whether  she  should  ever  "want"  to 
or  not,  the  idea  of  not  going  never  occurred 
to  her. 

In  the  next  two  years  of  college  her  future 
grew  very  definite,  and  everything  she  did 

[221 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

was  done  with  the  view  of  training  herself 
for  it.  In  the  long  vacations  at  home  she 
had  her  Bible  class,  and  went  to  mothers' 
meetings,  and  organized  "socials,"  and  at 
tended  sewing  societies.  Such  New  England 
parish  activities  do  not  sound  very  Asiatic, 
but  Alice  meant  to  transplant  them  all  to 
the  land  of  the  dragon.  Every  Sunday 
afternoon  she  hitched  Jim — a  rather  elderly 
Jim  now,  but  still  big  and  rangy  and  friendly 
— into  her  father's  old  buggy  and  drove  four 
miles  out  on  Bald  Head  Road,  to  a  small 
red  school -house  where  she  had  a  Sunday- 
school  for  the  children  of  the  loggers.  She 
was  sure  the  Chinese  children  would  love 
to  come  to  Sunday-school! 

She  was  quite  happy  in  all  this,  except 
when  some  admiring  friend  told  her  how 
"brave"  she  was  to  be  a  missionary.  "/ 
couldn't  do  it!"  the  West  Meadows  girls 
admitted;  "Why,  they  say  there  was  a 
missionary  once  in  Africa,  and  they  buried 
her  alive  in  a  white  ants'  nest!" 

"They  don't  have  white  ants  in  China," 
Alice  retorted,  bravely;  but  she  caught  her 

[23] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

breath.  Yet  most  of  the  time  the  old  fear 
was  asleep;  perhaps  because  the  time  of 
going  to  China  seemed  pretty  far  off.  When 
you  are  twenty,  two  years  is  a  long  time  to 
look  forward  to.  Even  a  year  is  a  good 
while.  And  by  and  by  six  months  is  quite 
a  respite — if  what  you  are  looking  forward 
to  is  being  hanged ! 

Toward  the  middle  of  that  second  year 
the  interest  of  finding  herself  important  did 
its  part  in  keeping  fear  asleep;  for  she  was 
very  important  in  West  Meadows!  The 
deacons  were  openly  proud  of  her  and  told 
her  she  was  a  courageous  girl;  the  sewing 
society  expended  itself  upon  her  outfit  and 
sighed  over  the  hardships  she  must  encoun 
ter;  the  Sunday-school  raised  fifty  dollars 
to  buy  certain  necessary  books — one  of 
them  contained  the  story  of  the  ants'  nest 
— and  at  Wednesday  night  prayer-meeting 
she  was  always  prayed  for. 

In  the  midst  of  the  little  bustle  of  solemn 
excitement  Mrs.  Alden  wrote  to  her  Cali 
fornia  brother,  gently  exulting  in  the  fact 
that,  although  he  had  not  helped  her, 

124] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

the  Lord  had!  To  which  the  Californian 
replied  that  if  the  Lord  had  ever  lived  in 
California — "which  I  sometimes  doubt!" — 
He  would  think  twice  before  sending  an 
American  girl  to  convert  the  Chinese! 

"I  wonder  why  he  says  that?"  Alice  pon 
dered,  with  a  shiver. 

She  was  to  sail  in  October.  In  August 
Cousin  Mary  closed  her  house  in  Boston 
and  came  up  to  West  Meadows  to  help  with 
preparations.  Mrs.  Alden  whitened  during 
those  lessening  weeks ;  as  for  Mr.  Alden,  he 
tried  to  avoid  thinking  how  rapidly  they  were 
lessening !  It  was  about  this  time  that  Alice 
read  up  one  day  on  various  Chinese  tortures, 
and  cried  herself  to  sleep  the  same  night. 

Once  William  Alden,  looking  at  his  saintly 
Ellen  with  curious  eyes,  said:  "I  wish  I 
wanted  her  to  go  as  much  as  you  do.  Won't 
it  just  about  kill  you,  Ellen?" 

She  smiled  and  said:  "In  a  way,  yes. 
But  what  difference  does  that  make?" 

"Well,  it  would  make  some  difference  to 
me,"  he  said,  meekly. 

But  she  did  not  hear  him;   she  was  sew- 

[25] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

ing  as  steadily  as  a  machine.  Every  stitch 
was  a  dedication  of  Alice,  mind  and  body, 
to  the  saving  of  souls!  By  September  she 
had  stitched  herself  into  a  little  wraith  of 
energy  and  purpose.  Alice  sewed,  too,  and 
so  did  Cousin  Mary.  Mr.  Alden  just  wan 
dered  about  among  trunks  and  boxes,  mak 
ing  jokes  and  futile  suggestions.  And  in 
the  midst  of  it  appeared — of  all  people!— 
Neely  Henderson. 

Neely  Henderson  had  come  to  West 
Meadows  to  investigate  some  distinctly 
promising  workings  for  a  marble-quarry, 
back  somewhere  among  a  few  unsold  acres 
still  belonging  to  the  Hendersons.  He  saw 
Alice  at  the  post-office  and  went  up  and 
spoke  to  her. 

"I'm  Neely  Henderson,"  he  said.  "I 
suppose  you've  forgotten  me?  We  played 
missionaries,  and  I  tried  to  make  a  martyr 
of  you." 

"Of  course  I  remember  you!"  she  said. 

"And  the  'stake'  and  the  'fagots'?  It 
makes  my  blood  run  cold  to  think  of  my 
craziness.  You  had  on  a  cotton  dress!" 

[26] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

He  had  taken  possession  of  her  mail 
— mostly  missionary  publications  —  and 
stopped  to  unhitch  Jim  for  her.  Alice 
climbed  into  the  buggy,  and,  gathering  up 
the  reins,  looked  down  at  him.  "Good-by," 
she  said. 

"Mayn't  I  come  home  with  you?" 

"  I  am  going  to  drive  out  to  the  red  school- 
house,  to  tidy  it  for  to-morrow,"  she  said, 
shyly — back  in  the  early  'nineties  girls  were 
still  shy.  "I  have  a  Sunday-school  class 
there  in  the  afternoon." 

"Mayn't  I  come,  too?" 

She  said  yes,  if  he  didn't  mind  the  shabbi- 
ness  of  the  buggy.  As  they  jogged  along  he 
told  her  why  he  was  in  West  Meadows. 
"I'm  prospecting  for  marble  on  Bald  Head. 
I'll  show  you  as  we  pass  it,  just  where  I 
mean  to  crack  the  nut.  If  I  find  marble  I'll 
put  every  last  cent  I've  got — that  means  six 
hundred  dollars  at  this  moment! — into  it. 
Now  tell  me  about  yourself." 

"I'm  going  out  to  China,"  she  said;  "as 
a  missionary." 

"What!   A  missionary?" 

[27] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

She  nodded,  smiling  bravely. 

"You  want  to  go?"  he  said.  He  somehow 
couldn't  believe  it. 

"Yes." 

He  looked  at  her  keenly;  she  was  very 
pretty,  he  thought.  She  had  on  a  blue 
straw  hat,  with  red  cherries  around  the 
crown  and  under  the  brim.  The  wind  was 
blowing  tendrils  of  bright  hair  about  her 
forehead,  and  her  eyes  were  soft  and  gray, 
and  there  was  a  wild-rose  color  in  her  cheeks ; 
and  her  mouth  was  the  sweetest  curving, 
timid  thing  imaginable!  It  seemed  to  him 
that  there  was  a  little  quaver  in  her  voice. 
"China,"  he  said,  watching  the  way  her  lips 
bent  when  her  brief  smile  came,  "China 
isn't  so  dreadfully  far  away  nowadays." 

"No." 

"  She  doesn't  want  to  go !"  he  said  to  him 
self.  He  had  a  sudden  impulse  to  say  what 
he  thought  of  Mr.  Alden's  letting  a  little 
scared  thing  like  Alice  go  off  as  a  missionary. 
Aloud,  he  only  declared  that  China  was 
getting  so  civilized,  that  really— 

"Father  says  that  in  some  things  the 

[28] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

Chinese   are   more   civilized   than   we   are. 
Only,  they  need  Christianity." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  he  said.  Between  his 
dismay  at  the  idea  of  this  delicate  child 
wandering  out  into  lonely  and  unholy  lands, 
and  his  desire  to  take  away  the  dread  which, 
instinctively,  in  spite  of  those  faintly  smiling 
lips,  he  felt  was  heavy  on  her  heart,  he  did 
not  know  whether  to  encourage  or  to  dis 
courage  her.  Not  that  it  made  much  dif 
ference  which  he  did;  he  was  to  leave  West 
Meadows  in  a  day  or  two,  and,  unless  those 
boulder-strewn  pastures  were  very  promis 
ing,  he  might  never  come  back.  If  they  were 
promising,  he  would  open  the  quarry  in  the 
early  spring;  but  by  that  time,  he  thought, 
ruefully,  Alice  would  be  urging  the  Chinese 
ladies  to  stop  compressing  their  feet  longi 
tudinally,  and  teaching  them  to  compress 
them  latitudinally  —  probably  with  the 
added  barbarity  of  Western  civilization- 
high  heels! 

When  they  reached  the  red  school-house 
in  the  woods,  he  squeezed  himself  down  into 
a  seat  before  one  of  the  little  desks,  and  sat 

[29] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

there  watching  Alice  tidy  the  room  for  her 
class  the  next  day.  Of  course  he  did  all 
the  talking;  she  answered  mostly  with 
"Yes,"  or,  "No,"  and  her  pretty,  speechless 
smile.  Once  he  ventured  his  mild  witticism 
about  the  Chinese  ladies'  feet,  but  there 
was  no  answering  spark  in  her  soft,  unhu- 
morous  eyes.  Indeed,  she  was  even  graver 
than  usual  when  he  left  her  in  the  twilight 
at  the  parsonage  gate.  For  at  the  sound  of 
his  voice  the  old  terror  had  stirred;  that 
night,  and  for  many  nights  after  Neely  had 
again  vanished  from  West  Meadows,  she 
prayed  passionately  that  fear  might  be  taken 
out  of  her.  For  she  was  very  much  afraid. 

Then, suddenly, her  prayer  was  answered! 
Fear  ceased.  The  whole  machinery  of  pur 
pose,  the  whole  intention  of  her  life,  stopped 
short — her  mother  died. 

In  the  morning,  Mrs.  Alden  was  packing 
one  of  Alice's  trunks,  praying  to  herself  that 
her  child  might  carry  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  to  the  Children  of  Destruction.  At 
noon  she  had  entered  into  the  Kingdom 
herself. 

[30] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

Husband  and  daughter  staggered  under 
the  shock;  not  only  because  they  loved  her 
and  because  she  had  been  hands  and  feet 
and  brain  to  them,  but  because  now  the 
plan  by  which  the  life  of  all  three  of  them 
had  been  directed,  was  shattered. 

Of  course  Alice  could  not  be  a  missionary. 

Nobody  said  so,  just  at  first.  Mr.  Alden, 
because  he  was  too  stunned  to  think  of  it. 
Alice,  because  the  idea  of  even  a  brief  post 
ponement — which  was  all  she  admitted  as 
possible — gave  her,  under  her  grief,  a  sense 
of  relief  which  shocked  her;  and  Cousin 
Mary,  because  to  remember,  at  such  a  mo 
ment,  that  her  thousand  dollars  had  been 
spent  in  vain,  was  an  impropriety.  But,  of 
course,  as  the  grief-stricken  household  set 
tled  back  into  the  commonplaces  of  daily 
living,  the  thought  of  how  Mrs.  Alden's 
death  had  changed  everything  was  ines 
capable.  It  was  William  Alden  who  spoke 
of  it  first : 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can  let  Alice  go!" 

"You  can't,"  said  Miss  Alden. 

"But  I  must!  I  must!"  he  said,  wearily. 

[31] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

He  and  she  were  sitting  in  the  garden,  on  a 
stone  seat  under  a  big  silver  poplar.  Behind 
them,  on  the  parsonage  roof,  the  Virginia 
creeper  spread  its  crimson  cloak;  the  Sep 
tember  sunshine,  sifting  down  through  the 
poplar's  thinning  leaves,  fell  on  Miss 
Alden's  good  gray  head  and  glinted  in  her 
kind  eyes.  "I  wouldn't  interfere  with  what 
Sam  thinks  is  right  for  the  world,"  William 
Alden  said,  his  face  quivering. 

"It  is  right  for  her  to  stay  at  home!  Of 
course  she  can't  go  kiting  off  to  China  now." 

"She  feels  that  the  Lord  has  called  her," 
Alice's  father  said. 

"I  have  always  noticed,"  said  Mary 
Alden,  "that  the  Lord  never  calls  anybody 
to  do  two  jobs  at  the  same  time.  That's 
where  He's  not  like  us  poor,  foolish  human 
critters!  And  when  it  comes  to  being  a 
missionary  or  a  daughter — the  daughter  job 
must  be  done  first." 

"But  duty—"  he  began. 

"When  two  duties  jostle  each  other,  one 
of  'em  isn't  a  duty,"  Cousin  Mary  said, 
stoutly. 

[32] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"If  she  doesn't  go,  all  that  money  that 
you  so  generously  spent— 

"Nonsense!  It's  spent.  That's  all  there 
is  to  it.  Thrown  away,  I  suppose,  for  she 
certainly  doesn't  need  to  speak  Chinese  to 
keep  your  house." 

William  Alden  was  silent;  he  picked  a 
blade  of  grass  and  tied  it  into  knots;  then 
he  said,  almost  in  a  whisper: 

"I  know  how  sensible  you  always  are, 
Mary;  but  .  .  .  Ellen's  heart  was  set  on 
it.  No;  nothing  would  induce  me  to  inter 
fere  with  what  she  wanted  Alice  to  do!" 

"She  would  want  Alice  to  stay  at  home 
now,  William." 

"I'm  not  sure,"  he  said. 

"7'm  sure!"  said  Cousin  Mary;  "and  I 
shall  tell  Alice  so.  I  don't  like  to,  but  I 
will.  She's  a  conscientious  child,  though  I 
wish  her  conscience  was  ballasted  with  a 
sense  of  humor, — she  hasn't  a  particle !  And 
she'll  see  that  her  place  is  here  with  you." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  wistful 
admiration.  "I  never  dare  to  decide  peo 
ple's  duties  for  them,"  he  said,  simply. 

[33] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"I'll  have  to  screw  myself  up  to  it,"  she 
admitted. 

It  really  took  a  good  deal  of  screwing  up; 
for  to  tell  a  girl  she  must  resign  the  thing 
to  which  she  has  been  looking  forward  for 
years — for  all  her  life,  in  fact — is  no  easy 
matter.  But  it  wasn't  half  so  hard  as  Miss 
Alden  supposed  it  would  be.  .  .  . 

Alice  burst  out  crying. 

"  Of  course  I  expected  that"  Cousin  Mary 
told  the  minister  afterward;  "but  the  real 
trouble  was  about  that  'vow." 

"I  was  afraid  of  that.  I  used  to  wish 
Ellen  had  stopped  it.  But  Ellen  knew  best. 
I  never  interfered  with  anything  Ellen 
thought  right." 

"Well,  I  just  talked  sense  to  the  child," 
Miss  Alden  said. 

She  had  been  obliged  to  talk  a  great  deal 
of  sense. 

"Why,  how  can  I  stay  at  home?"  Alice 
had  said.  " It  would  be  breaking  my  vow!" 
Her  eyes  were  tragic  with  grief — and  the 
terror  of  temptation. 

"Well,  but  who  will  take  care  of  your 

[34] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

father  if  you  go?  /  can't.  In  the  first  place, 
I  live  in  Boston;  and  in  the  second  place,  I 
would  have  no  reputation  left!  William  is 
only  fifty-five,  and  I'm  a  young  thing  of 
forty-seven.  Of  course,  just  keeping  house 
isn't  so  interesting  as  going  off  as  a  mis 
sionary;  I  admit  that." 

"But  my  vow!"  Alice  said,  desperately. 
"  I  don't  want  to  leave  father — but  my  vow ! 
And — and  all  the  money  you  spent,  Cousin 
Mary?" 

"Oh,  as  to  that — that's  of  no  consequence. 
And  as  for  vows,  I  don't  believe  in  making 
them.  But  you  do,  and  I  see  your  point; 
you  would  think  it  wicked  to  break  your 
word?" 

"Yes,"  Alice  breathed;  "yes!" 

Cousin  Mary  reflected.  "Well,  you  didn't 
name  a  date  in  your  vow,  did  you?" 

"No,"  Alice  said. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Miss  Alden,  trium 
phantly,  "don't  you  see?  You  can't  go  until 
you  are  no  longer  needed  here.  When  you're 
not  needed,  you  can  go.  Of  course  I  realize 
how  hard  it  is  for  you — " 

[35] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

Alice  made  a  gesture — then  closed  her 
lips. 

"  It's  hard  to  lose  your  career.  But  careers 
must  wait  for  duty.  Promise  me  you  will  do 
your  duty  to  your  father." 

Alice  was  silent. 

"I  suppose,"  Cousin  Mary  said,  "that  it 
is  virtually  giving  it  up  for  good  and  all, 
because  he  will  need  you  as  long  as  he  lives. 
Unless,  of  course,  he  should  marry  again," 
she  added,  thoughtfully. 

"Oh,  he  wouldn't  do  that!"  Alice  said, 
with  a  gasp. 

"You  never  can  tell  about  men,"  Miss 
Aldensaid;  " still,  it  isn't  likely.  So  I  think, 
Alice,  you  must  face  the  fact  that  you  prob 
ably  will  never  go.  Your  father  will  live  to 
make  old  .bones." 

Alice  dropped  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
Miss  Alden  knew  that  she  wept.  But  she 
did  not  know  that  the  tears  were  of  sheer, 
ashamed  relief.  "  I  will  not  go,"  she  said,  at 
last,  in  a  smothered  voice. 

"That's  a  good  girl!"  said  Miss  Alden, 
heartily.  "Now  go  down-stairs  and  tell 

[36] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

your  father  you  won't  leave  him.  It  will 
cheer  him  up,  and  he  needs  it — poor,  dear 
William!" 

But  before  she  went  down-stairs  Alice 
locked  her  door  and  went  down  on  her  knees. 
"God,  I  would  have  gone;  I  would  have 
kept  my  vow.  I'm  not  backing  out!  I'll 
go — some  time.  I'm  only  deferring  it. 
Don't  you  see?  I  can't  go  now,  and  leave 
father.  I'm  not  backing  out;  I  know  I  am 
lent  to  the  Lord.  But  I  simply  can' t  go- 
yet.  .  .  .  Father  will  live  to  be  ninety,"  she 
told  herself;  "then  I  will  be — almost  sixty!" 

Fear  was  banished,  —  temporarily.  It 
would  be  a  long  time  before  she  was  sixty! 

So  it  was  all  settled.  William  Alden 
squeezed  one  thousand  dollars  from  his 
meager  bank-account — for  here  he  would 
have  his  own  way — and  paid  it  back  to 
Cousin  Mary;  there  was  a  meeting  of  the 
sewing  society  to  pack  up  Alice's  outfit  and 
ship  it  to  the  mission  in  Canton ;  a  teachers' 
meeting  to  decide  whether  the  fifty  dollars' 
worth  of  books  should  be  sold  or  donated 
to  the  Board;  and  the  Chinese  grammars 

4  [37] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

put  on  a  shelf  in  William  Al den's  book 
case. 

Then  the  father  and  daughter  began  their 
sorrowful  life  together.  Everything  was  just 
as  it  had  been — except  that  the  saintly  soul 
who  had  held  husband  and  child  to  a  heav 
enly  vision  not  their  own,  was  gone. 

As  for  Alice — "her  mother's  death  has 
told  on  her,"  the  church  said,  sympathet 
ically.  Certainly  a  new  look  had  come  into 
her  face ;  yet  it  was  not  entirely  grief.  "Per 
haps  she  worries  over  the  housekeeping?" 
the  good  women  of  the  congregation  spec 
ulated.  But  it  was  not  the  housekeeping 
that  troubled  Alice;  it  was  a  dull  ache  of 
shame.  "  I  didn't  want  to  go,"  she  told  her 
self,  miserably, "  and  I  am  glad  it  isn't  right 
to  leave  father.  Oh,  how  wicked  I  am!" 

Of  course  no  one  knew  that  she  was 
"wicked" ;  she  was  pitied  and  condoled  with 
and  told  to  "cheer  up,"  because  some  day 
the  way  might  be  opened  to  her  once  more ; 
told,  even  occasionally,  that  perhaps  her 
father  might  marry  again,  and  then  she 
could  go. 

[38] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

Even  her  father  looked  forward — not  to 
marrying  again — but  to  a  time  when  Alice 
might  live  her  own  life.  .  .  .  He  was  very 
miserable  in  that  year  that  followed  Mrs. 
Alden's  death.  His  life  was  like  a  ruined 
house,  crumbling  and  deserted  and  swept 
by  chill  winds.  Alice's  love  was  a  fire  glim 
mering  and  dancing  on  its  broken  hearth,  at 
which  he  might  warm  his  bewildered  heart; 
for,  without  his  Ellen's  gentle  insistence 
upon  what  she  thought  was  right,  his  kindly, 
easy  heart  was  perfectly  bewildered.  He 
scarcely  knew  what  to  think,  much  less  say 
or  do,  about  anything.  The  one  thing  that 
was  clear  to  him  was  Alice's  disappointment. 
So,  more  than  once,  he  urged  her  to  go  to 
China.  "I  can  get  along,  Sam,"  he  would 
say,  helplessly;  "and  your  mother  wanted 
you  to  go.  I  can't  bear  to  interfere  with 
what  she  thought  right." 

"She  would  think  it  was  right  for  me  to 
stay,"  Alice  said,  in  her  brief  way;  "Cousin 
Mary  said  so." 

"Cousin  Mary  is  very  sensible,"  William 
Alden  admitted;  "but  I  feel  selfish." 

[39] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

He  felt  so  selfish  that,  before  the  first  year 
of  bereavement  had  passed,  the  comfort  of 
the  little  fire  on  his  widowed  hearth  began 
to  lessen.  Alice's  presence  was  bought,  he 
thought,  at  the  price  of  cruel  self-sacrifice — 
and  of  another  disappointment  to  her 
mother.  "First,  I  failed  Ellen,"  Mr.  Alden 
thought;  "and  now,  for  my  sake,  Sam  fails 
her." 

It  was  a  year  later  that,  in  one  of  his  let 
ters  to  Cousin  Mary,  his  scruples  found 
words:  "Sam  tries  not  to  let  me  see  how 
disappointed  she  is  at  giving  up  her  life- 
work;  but  of  course  I  know  it.  Even 
Neely  Henderson — who  has  opened  up  a 
quarry  on  Bald  Head — spoke  of  it  to  me; 
he  said  he  was  'glad  Alice  hadn't  gone 
off  to  China,  but  it  must  have  been  a 
disappointment  to  her.'  The  boy  didn't 
realize  how  his  words  brought  my  self 
ishness  home  to  me." 

To   which   Miss   Alden   replied,    briefly: 

"Then  stop  being  selfish.  Get  mar 
ried,  and  let  her  go!" 

The  idea  was  so  startling  to  the  saddened 

[40] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

man  that,  after  he  had  read  the  letter  in  the 
post-office,  he  trudged  home  in  the  rain,  for 
getting  to  raise  his  umbrella.  "Get  mar 
ried?"  Of  course  that  would  solve  the  prob 
lem.  ...  If  he  had  a  wife  to  look  after 
him,  no  "sense  of  duty"  would  keep  Alice 
in  West  Meadows.  "I  suppose  Ellen  would 
think  I  ought  to,"  he  said,  wretchedly.  Then 
he  had  a  glimmer  of  comfort.  He  couldn't 
think  of  anybody  to  marry ! 

"Your  suggestion  is  practical,"  he 
wrote  to  Miss  Alden,  "except  for  the  fact 
that  I  am  not  acquainted  with  any  lady 
who  would  be  willing  to  do  me  so  great 
a  favor." 

Her  reply  was  to  the  point:  "There  are 
just  as  many  ladies  who  would  do  you 
the  'favor'  as  there  are  old  maids  and 
widows  in  your  congregation." 

Reading  that  laconic  statement,  Alice's 
father  laughed  as  he  had  not  laughed  in  a 
year. 

That  Neely  Henderson,  camping  in  a 
shack  on  the  edge  of  his  marble-quarry,  was 
innocent  of  any  intention  of  rousing  the 

[411 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

have  been  clear  to  any  one  who  knew  how 
Reverend  Mr.  Alden's  conscience  would 
often  the  young  man  called  at  the  parson 
age,  and  with  what  exemplary  regularity  he 
went  to  church.  It  was  clear  to  Alice.  His 
reference  to  her  thwarted  career  only  meant 
his  joy  in  the  fact  that  it  had  been  thwarted. 
She  knew  that  he  was  glad  she  was  safe  and 
sound  in  America,  in  West  Meadows,  in  the 
minister's  pew  right  across  the  aisle,  and — 
in  another  hour — walking  home  by  his  side 
to  the  parsonage !  And,  as  they  drew  nearer 
and  nearer  to  each  other,  William  Alden  felt 
more  and  more  selfish. 

So  it  came  about  that  one  day — his  wife 
had  been  gone  now  more  than  two  years — 
he  girded  himself,  and  went  down  to  Boston 
to  talk  things  over  with  Cousin  Mary.  She 
lived  on  the  Hill,  the  old-fashioned  part  of 
Boston,  in  a  brick  house  whose  windows 
looked  out  on  a  small  grass-plot  inclosed 
by  a  rusty  iron  fence;  it  was  shaded  by 
lindens,  and  a  little  granite  statue  at  each 
end  added  a  classic  suggestion  that  William 
Alden  loved.  And  he  loved  the  comfortable 

[42] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

old  house,  and  the  gnarled  wistaria  that 
looped  and  knotted  above  the  front  door; 
and  the  good  cooking,  and  the  books,  and 
the  lively  talk — which  had  sometimes  pained 
his  Ellen — and  more  than  all  these  things, 
he  loved  and  trusted  the  sensible,  humorous 
woman  who  —  though  he  had  forgotten  all 
about  it — might  have  been  his  wife,  if  only, 
almost  thirty  years  ago,  she  had  been  just 
a  little  less  sensible!  It  was  that  sensible- 
ness  of  hers  which  brought  him  down  now 
from  Vermont  to  ask  advice. 

"  I  always  trust  your  judgment,  Mary,"  he 
explained.  He  was  standing  up  in  front  of 
her  sitting-room  fire,  with  his  coat-tails 
drawn  forward  under  his  arms.  "I  am 
spoiling  Sam's  life,  keeping  her  in  West 
Meadows.  What  ought  I  to  do?  Ellen" — 
he  sighed  —  "Ellen  is  being  disappointed 
again." 

Miss  Alden  nodded.  "I  understand  how 
you  feel  about  that." 

''And  you,  Mary,  you  are  disappointed, 
too,  because  you  don't  feel  that  you  have  a 
missionary  of  your  own  in  the  field."  This 

[43] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

was  plainly  an  afterthought  of  obligation ;  his 
real  dismay  was  on  his  dead  wife's  account. 

Cousin  Mary  got  up  and  began  to  nip  off 
a  withered  leaf  here  and  there  on  the  row 
of  geraniums  on  the  window-sill.  "I'm 
afraid  I  don't  care  so  terribly  much  about 
having  a  missionary  of  my  own,  William. 
But  I  do  feel  badly  about  Ellen  and  Alice. 
And  I  should  have  liked  to  feel  that  Alice 
was  teaching  the  yellow  people  to  scrub, 
and  to  read  their  Bibles,  too.  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  have  said  that  first?" 

"As  for  Alice's  being  free  to  leave  me," 
he  said,  "that  suggestion  of  yours  that  I 
should — should  ...  I  think  Ellen  might 
agree  with  you,  on  Sam's  account;  and  I 
really  wouldn't  mind  marrying,  just  to 
please  Ellen  and  to  keep  Sam  from  failing 
her.  Yes;  if  I  could  find  a  woman  who 
didn't  set  my  teeth  on  edge,  and  who 
would  be  willing  to  take  me  with  the  under 
standing  that — that  she  can't  take  Ellen's 
place,  why,  I'd— 

"  In  other  words,  if  some  woman  would  be 
a  convenience?" 

[44J 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"I'm  afraid  that's  what  it  amounts  to," 
he  said,  simply. 

Miss  Alden  chuckled. 

"Of  course  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  deceive 
one  of  those  excellent  ladies  in  my  congrega 
tion,"  he  said;  "I'd  have  to  confess  that 
she  would  be  a  'convenience';  and  then 
she  would  very  properly  show  me  the  door." 

"Oh  no,  she  wouldn't,"  said  Miss  Alden. 
"William  ..." 

"Yes?" 

"Ah,  .  .  .  William.  Do  /  set  your  teeth 
on  edge?" 

"Mary!" 

"  I  don't  mind  being  a  '  convenience ' ;  and 
then  Alice  and  Ellen  could  have  their  way." 

He  stared  at  her  blankly.  "My  dear 
cousin — " 

"Oh,  if  I  set  your  teeth  on  edge,  don't 
hesitate  to  say  so!"  She  threw  a  handful  of 
vellowing  geranium  leaves  into  the  fire  and 
gave  a  grunt  of  embarrassed  laughter. 

William  Alden's  dreamy  face  grew  sud 
denly  keen;  he  was  remembering.  .  .  . 
How  many  years  ago  was  it?  And  he  had 

[45] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

thought  he  would  never  get  over  her  refusal ; 
thought  he  was  done  with  women!  How 
young  they  had  both  been!  How  foolish! 
And  then  Ellen — 

His  throat  tightened  with  pain.  He  had 
always  been  half  afraid  of  Ellen;  but  he 
loved  her,  even  if  he  was  afraid  of  her. 
She  had  been  like  a  light,  a  pure,  cold  light, 
shining  on  a  high  and  heavenly  path  in 
which  his  careless  feet  had  been  too  indolent 
to  walk.  If  it  hadn't  been  that  Mary — all 
those  years  and  years  ago ! — had  been  sensi 
ble  enough  to  refuse  him,  he  would  never 
have  had  Ellen.  He  loved  Mary,  now,  for 
not  loving  him  then !  And  now,  for  Ellen's 
sake,  that  same  wonderful  common  sense  of 
hers  would  make  it  possible  for  him  to  fulfil 
the  desire  of  Ellen's  heart !  His  eyes  blurred. 
"Mary  Alden,"  he  said,  almost  with  pas 
sion,  "you  are— 

"I'm  an  old  maid,"  she  said,  her  eyes 
twinkling;  "and  you  and  I  have  been  good 
friends  all  our  lives.  Of  course  I'm  no  more 
in  love  with  you  than  I  am  with  that  chair! 
But  you  and  Ellen  wanted  Alice  to  be  a 

[46] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

missionary,  and  the  child  has  just  lived  for 
it.  I  was  thinking  of  going  to  Europe ;  but 
I'd  rather  give  Alice  her  career;  and  if  you 
feel  as  I  do  about  it — why,  let's  do  it!" 
Then  her  face  reddened.  "Of  course,  I 
know  this  is  a  shocking  thing  for  me  to  do. 
But  as  the  world  is  constituted  I  really  can't 
keep  house  for  you  on  any  other  terms.  Still 
— don't  hesitate  to  say  that  it  'sets  your 
teeth  on  edge." 

"It  doesn't,"  he  said;  "it  only  over 
whelms  me  with  a  sense  of  your  goodness. 
Mary,  you  are  only — how  old  are  you? 
Forty-nine?  My  dear  girl,  you  ought  to 
marry  a  younger  man,  who  hasn't  a  wife  in 
heaven  to  whom  he  gives  what  forlorn  old 
heart  he  has  left.  You  ought  to  marry — " 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  William.  Of  course  I'm 
not  going  to  marry  any  younger  man — or 
older  man,  either !  I'm  going  to  marry  you — 
if  you  want  me  to.  And  Alice  can  go  off  to 
China  with  an  easy  conscience." 

"Mary,  I  don't  know  how  I  can  accept 
so  great  a  kindness.  I  assure  you  that  if  it 
wasn't  for  Ellen  I  wouldn't  think  of  it!" 

[47] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

They  were  both  so  in  earnest  that  they 
neither  of  them  saw  the  humor,  under  the 
circumstances,  of  such  a  remark.  "It  is  a 
temptation,"  he  said;  "it  would  be  such  a 
joy  to  Ellen." 

"Well,  then,  let's  do  it,  for  her  sake.  I'll 
get  the  child's  clothes  together,"  said  Cousin 
Mary,  beaming.  "  I  declare,  it  will  be  worth 
a  dollar  to  me  just  to  tell  her  she  can  go! 
I  shall  never  forget  how  hard  it  was  to  tell 
her  she  couldn't." 

William  Alden's  face  relaxed  into  satis 
faction;  the  pain  of  missing  Alice  was  in 
evitable,  but  at  least  she  should  have  her 
heart's  desire!  "If  you  really  mean  it," 
he  said,  "if  you  can  do  this  great  thing  for 
Ellen  and  Sam,  why  not  go  back  with  me 
to  West  Meadows?  I  can  see  the  Board  to 
morrow  moining,  make  all  the  arrange 
ments  for  Alice  to  go,  then  we  can  take  the 
noon  train;  and  by  supper-time  she  will 
know  it ! — We  can  get  married  in  the  morn 
ing,"  he  added,  in  a  placid  afterthought. 

"Gracious!"  said  Cousin  Mary;  "'this 
is  so  sudden ' !  What  do  you  suppose  I  would 

[48] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

do  with  my  house?  Just  go  off  and  leave  it 
permanently?  No,  no;  there's  no  such  kill 
ing  hurry.  I'll  go  back  with  you  to  West 
Meadows,  and  start  in  on  the  sewing. 
There's  a  lot  to  do  to  get  Alice  ready.  Then 
after  she  has  started,  if  you  are  still  of  the 
same  mind — " 

"You  need  have  no  doubt  about  that!" 
"  Well,  don't  write  a  word  of  it  to  Alice," 
she  cautioned  him.     "I  want  the  pleasure 
of  telling  her  she  can  go  myself!" 


CHAPTER  III 

BUT  I  haven't  any  money  to  speak 
of,"  Neely  said;  to  which  Alice 
made  hopeful  response: 

"If  there  is  a  lot  of  marbV  in  the  hill 
you'll  have  money,  won't  you?" 

"If — if,"  he  echoed;  "and  if  I  can  get 
the  capital  to  swing  it!" 

He  was  to  start  that  night,  on  the  evening 
stage,  for  a  fortnight  in  New  York,  where 
he  had  hopes  of  securing  this  "capital." 
"But  if  I  can't  interest  a  banker  or  some 
big  man,"  he  said,  gloomily,  "if  I  have  to 
swing  it  myself,  it  will  be  just  swapping 
dollars." 

He  had  come  up  to  tne  school -house 
among  the  pines  to  say  good-by  to  her,  and 
also  to  help  in  the  usual  Saturday-afternoon 
cleaning  and  tidying  of  the  bare  little  room, 
so  that  it  would  be  fresh  and  sweet  for 
Alice's  Sunday-school  the  next  day.  The 

[50] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

work  done,  she  was  sitting  on  the  door-step 
in  the  December  sunshine,  resting,  before 
starting  back.  Jim,  hitched  to  the  fence, 
turned  a  mild  eye  upon  them  and  won 
dered  at  their  slowness  in  getting  back  to 
oats. 

Alice  still  had  the  broom  in  her  hands, 
and  sometimes,  as  she  listened  to  Neely's 
anxious  talk  of  ways  and  means  and  marble, 
she  brushed  it  back  and  forth  over  the  foot 
worn  patch  of  bare  ground  in  front  of  the 
step. 

Cornelius  looked  at  the  pure  outline  of 
her  face  and  at  the  little  curls  at  the  nape 
of  her  slender  neck,  and  words  that  had 
been  hot  upon  his  lips  for  the  last  two 
months  struggled  to  escape.  He  put  his 
hand  over  his  mouth  and  held  them 
prisoner. 

''I've  got  to  have  something  better  to 
offer  than  a  hole  in  the  ground,"  he  was 
saying  to  himself;  "if  I  can  just  scratch  up 
some  capital,  I'll  risk  it!"  So,  a  little  huskily, 
he  spoke  of  common  things — the  weather, 
her  Sunday-school,  even  of  that  old  plan 

[51] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

of  going  to  China.  "I'm  mighty  glad  you 
didn't  go!" 

Those  imprisoned  words  must  have  called 
for  freedom  through  his  voice;  at  any 
rate,  something  brought  a  flush  into  Alice's 
face. 

"I  might  have  saved  souls,"  she  said, 
briefly;  then,  in  spite  of  her  happy  color, 
she  sighed. 

"You  will  save  my  soul  by  staying!" 
he  said.  The  prisoner  words,  hammering 
against  the  bars  of  his  will,  made  his  heart 
beat  so  violently  that  his  breath  almost 
failed  him. 

The  rose  flush  in  Alice's  face  deepened; 
but  she  only  said,  simply:  "I  think  of 
China.  A  good  deal." 

Neely  nodded.    "I  understand,"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head.  "Nobody  under 
stands." 

"You  couldn't  leave  your  father,"  he 
reminded  her. 

"No,"  she  agreed;  then  looked  at  him 
with  dumb  eyes,  which  tried  to  confess : "  but 
I  was  glad  I  couldn't."  Aloud,  she  said  that 

[52] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

it  was  time  to  start  home.     "Jim  wants 
his  oats." 

"I'll  be  back  in  West  Meadows  in  two 
weeks  at  the  latest;  maybe  sooner,"  Neely 
said.  As  he  spoke,  those  other  words,  locked 
behind  his  sensible  young  lips,  climbed  up 
and  looked  out  of  his  eyes — and  before  he 
knew  it  they  were  free ! 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  needn't  ever  go  away  from 
you,  Alice!" 

v'  I — I  must  put  the  broom  in  the  closet," 
she  said,  faintly,  and  rose. 

"Alice!"  he  said.     He  caught  her  hand, 
and  stood  trembling;    then  he  kissed  her, 
holding  her  tight  in  his  arms. 
'"  *  Oh,"  Alice  said,  and  dropped  the  broom. 

"Kiss  me!"  he  said;  but  it  was  he  who 
kissed  her.  Then  he  let  her  slip  out  of  his 
arms,  and  they  looked  at  each  other.  "If 
you  had  gone  to  China  we  shouldn't  have 
known — we  cared,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of 
sob.  It  was  as  if  he  saw  a  dreadful  danger 
which  he  had  escaped.  He  knew  that  she 
saw  it,  too. 

"I  would  have  gone,"  she  said,  "if — " 

5  [53] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

He  felt  her  tremble.  "I  would  have  had  to 
go,"  she  insisted  in  a  whisper;  "but  dear 
mother — poor  mother — "  She  laid  her  cheek 
on  his  arm,  and  he  felt  she  was  crying. 

"You  would  rather  have  gone — and  lost 
me  a  thousand  times  over! — than  have  had 
her  die,"  he  comforted  her.  It  was  wonder 
ful  how  he  divined  her  dismay  at  the  sig 
nificance  there  was  in  her  gratitude  for 
having  been  spared  for  him. 

"Oh,  I  would,"  she  said  in  a  smothered 
voice. 

He  could  not  see  her  face,  but  he  put  his 
lips  on  her  soft  hair.  They  stood  there  for 
a  minute  in  silence;  then  he  said,  "We'll 
both  take  care  of  your  father  now,"  at  which 
she  put  her  lips  against  his  coat-sleeve  and 
kissed  it.  How  he  understood!  In  her 
speechless  way,  she  knew  what  adoration 
meant. 

As  they  drove  home  it  seemed  as  if  there 
was  no  end  to  his  understanding.  .  .  .  He 
spoke  of  that  missionary  career  gently,  with 
reverence,  as  one  speaks  of  something  beau 
tiful  and  dead.  He  did  not  let  his  own  joy 

[54] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

that  it  was  dead  break  in  upon  its  sacred- 
ness.  He  spoke  of  all  he  would  try  to  be  to 
Mr.  Alden.  He  £ven  assented  to  Alice's 
sudden  reminder: 

*ll  gave  up  going,  to  be  with  father — 
while  he  lives;  if  he — if  anything  should 
happen — " 

"It  won't.  Because  he  isn't  so  very  old, 
you  know.  He 'will  live  for  years  and  years 
and  years!  And  need  you  always.  You 
never  could  leave  him — and  me." 

"No,"  she  said,  briefly;  "but  if  it  wasn't 
for  taking  care  of  him  I  couldn't  .  .  .  get 
married." 

The  mere  word  made  his  head  spin! 

"How  soon  can  we  be  married?  Oh, 
Alice,  won't  you  be  willing  right  off?  Next 
month,  perhaps?" 

"  Goose,"  she  said,  radiantly. 

"  We'll  be  poor,"  he  said,  "but  what  do  we 
care?  We'll  have  money  enough  to — to 
love  on!"  he  exulted.  "My  balance  is  eight 
hundred  and  sixty  dollars  now.  I  wasn't 
going  to  say  a  word,"  he  confessed.  "I 
did  try  not  to;  but  I'm  glad  I  did." 

[55] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"If  you  hadn't,  I — couldn't  have  lived," 
she  said. 

Cornelius  caught  his  breath  under  the 
soft  shock  of  her  confession.  "  I'm  not  good 
enough  for  you,"  he  said,  passionately;  and 
began  to  drive  with  one  hand ;  indeed — Jim 
being  headed  for  his  oats! — there  was  just 
a  minute  when  he  let  the  reins  fall  on  the 
dashboard  and  didn't  drive  at  all.  "What 
can  I  ever  do  to  make  you  as  happy  as  you 
make  me?"  he  breathed. 

"Love  me,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  and 
laid  her  sweet,  cold  cheek  against  his.  The 
tears  leaped  to  his  eyes.  But  he  had  no 
words  to  match  them;  he  only  laughed, 
with  a  break  in  his  voice,  and  said : 

"Love  you?  Ask  me  something  I  don't 
do  every  minute,  every  breath!"  Then  he 
took  up  the  reins  again.  "Ask  me  to — to 
die,  or  chuck  up  the  quarry,  or — or  any 
thing,"  he  said,  "just  to  show  you!" 

After  that  they  were  both  able  to  laugh 
and  be  a  little  more  matter-of-fact;  though 
all  the  while,  under  his  eager  talk — Alice, 
smiling,  did  not  talk  at  all — he  was  tense 

[56] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

'with  the  wonder  of  what  had  happened 
to  him. 

He  left  her  on  her  side  of  the  parson 
age  gate,  saying,  "Good-by";  decorously 
enough,  then,  as  she  turned  away,  he  flung 
the  gate  open,  and  ran  after  her,  catching 
her  behind  a  great  hemlock  all  powdery 
with  snow,  and  saying  good-by  all  over 
again !  Then  he  left  her,  her  checks  burning, 
so  happy,  so  confused,  so  gaily  foolish,  that, 
up-stairs  in  her  own  room,  changing  her 
•dress  for  tea,  she  even  tried  putting  up  her 
hair  in  a  new  way,  all  the  while  smiling  at 
herself  in  the  little  swinging  mirror  on  the 
high  bureau. 

It  was  while  she  was  wrapping  the  chest 
nut  braids  round  and  round  behind  her 
ears  that,  in  the  wintry  dusk,  the  afternoon 
stage  drew  up  at  the  door,  and,  running  to 
the  window,  she  saw  her  father  step  out,  a 
little  clumsily,  for  he  was  carrying  a  bird 
cage.  Then  he  turned  and  extended  a  hand 
to  Cousin  Mary  Alden.  Alice  gave  a  little 
shriek  of  delight. 

"Oh,  joy!"  she  said,  under  her  breath. 

[57] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"What  have  we  got  for  supper?"  She  ran 
back  to  the  looking-glass  for  two  more  hair 
pins,  then  flew  down-stairs,  out  of  the  front 
door,  and  along  the  path  to  the  gate. 
"Cousin  Mary  will  help  me  make  my  wed 
ding-clothes!"  she  was  saying  to  herself. 
Aloud,  she  was  (for  her)  almost  voluble  with 
hospitality:  "Oh,  father,  how  did  you  get 
her  to  come?" 

"Look  out  for  Dicky's  cage!"  said  Cousin 
Mary.  "You  darling  child,  give  me  a  kiss! 
Why,  you've  fixed  your  hair  a  new  way! 
William,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  she'd  fixed 
her  hair  a  new  way?  Well,  have  you  got 
enough  supper  to  go  around?  And  for 
Heaven's  sake  keep  the  cat  away  from 
Dicky!" 

Alice,  kissing  her  father,  caught  up  a 
bandbox,  and  said  Dicky  was  perfectly  safe. 
"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you're  here!" 

They  went  up  the  path  together,  a  very 
happy  group;  the  two  elders — full  of  the 
news  they  were  going  to  tell  her — exchang 
ing  glances  of  satisfaction;  and  Alice,  full  of 
the  news  she  was  going  to  tell  them  as  soon 

[58] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

as  she  could  bring  herself  to  speak  of  it — 
it  was  so  hard  for  her  to  speak!  "Cousin 
Mary  and  I  will  begin  to  sew,"  she  was 
thinking,  with  swift  visions  of  lovely,  ruffiy 
things.  "And  I'll  do  a  lot  of  embroidery! 
Though  I  can't  be  married  for  ages,  in  spite 
of  what  that  foolish  Neely  says." 

"You've  got  to  stay  a  long  time,"  she  told 
the  guest;  "I  won't  let  you  off  with  any 
stingy  fortnight  or  so — " 

Cousin  Mary  winked  at  the  minister  and 
then  looked  just  a  little  conscious.  It  isn't 
entirely  easy  to  tell  a  girl  you  are  going  to 
be  her  stepmother!  Still,  the  child  had  too 
much  sense  not  to  understand.  .  .  . 

"We've  got  some  news  for  you,  Sam," 
Mr.  Alden  said. 

Alice  did  not  hear.  She  was  untying 
Cousin  Mary's  bonnet  and  giving  her  an 
other  hug,  in  the  midst  of  which  Miss  Alden 
said,  chuckling:  "It  isn't  a  visit  this  time, 
Alice.  I'm  going  to  stay;  and  you  " — her 
voice  was  gay  with  achievement — "and  you 
can  go  to  China!" 

"Yes,  Sam,"  William  Alden  said,  "it's 

[59] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

all  arranged.  And  it's  Cousin  Mary  who 
has  made  it  possible." 

Alice  stood  stock-still.  Her  lips  slowly 
parted,  her  eyes  dilated.  "What?"  she  said, 
and  gasped.  "I — I  don't  understand,"  she 
said,  faintly. 

They  had  not  -meant  to  tell  her  so  soon ; 
they  had  planned  that  the  great  news  should 
come  gradually.  They  were  going  to  tell  her 
quietly,  after  supper,  in  the  study.  But,  in 
spite  of  themselves,  it  just  burst  out : 

"I'm  going  to  stay  always,  Alice,  so  that 
you  may  be  a  missionary!" 

Alice  swayed  for  a  moment,  and  things 
grew  black  in  front  of  her.  Cousin  Mary 
was  instant  in  catching  her  in  her  kind, 
capable  arms,  and  laying  her  softly  on  the 
lounge.  "A  glass  of  water,  William!"  she 
said;  and  then  fanned  the  white-faced  girl 
with  the  nearest  thing  she  could  find — 
The  Spirit  of  Missions,  as  it  happened, 
with  its  pages  still  uncut. 

"It  startled  you,"  she  reproached  herself. 
"Thank  you,  William.  Here,  drink  this, 
Alice.  Now!  You're  all  right,  only  lie  still 

[60] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

for  a  while.  William,  go  off  somewhere,  will 
you?  We  ought  to  have  prepared  her.  No, 
don't  talk,  my  darling  child;  just  lie  still. 
And  think  how  happy  you  are !  You  made 
your  sacrifice,  but  now  everything  has  come 
round  right  for  you,  and  you  may  go  ahead 
and  do  what  you  want!" 

She  kissed  Alice  gently;  her  kind  eyes 
were  full  of  tears.  Alice's  own  eyes  were 
closed ;  her  lips  trembled. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  in  a  whisper. 

"I'll  give  your  father  his  supper,"  said 
Cousin  Mary;  "you  just  lie  quietly  here. 
After  a  while  I'll  bring  you  a  cup  of  tea." 

But  as  she  moved  away  Alice  caught  at 
her  dress.  "How  can  you  stay?"  she  said, 
faintly.  "You  said — when  mother  died — it 
wouldn't  be — proper." 

"Oh,  bless  my  heart!"  said  Cousin  Mary. 
"  I  forgot.  Why,  we  are  going  to  be  married, 
dear,  your  father  and  I.  I  forgot  to  men 
tion  it.  Of  course  we  shall  have  to  be 
married.  You  have  no  foolish  feeling  about 
a  stepmother?  You  are  too  sensible  for  that ! 
I  won't  be  a  stepmother  at  all;  I'll  just  be 

[61] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

*  Cousin  Mary'  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 
There's  no  question  of  taking  your  dear 
mother's  place  with  your  father,  or  with 
you,  either !  It  is  only  just  a  way  to  make  it 
possible  for  you  to  have  your  great  desire. 
You  understand,  dear  child,  don't  you?" 

"Yes.     I  understand.  .  .  .  Thank  you, 
Cousin  Mary." 


CHAPTER  IV 

HE  was  simply  overcome  by  it,"  Miss 
Alden  told  her  cousin.  "William,  to 
see  that  child's  happiness  ought  to 
pay  you  for  your  sacrifice." 

"  Sacrifice?"  he  protested.  "What  are  you 
talking  about?  You  are  the  one  who  will 
make  the  sacrifice !  I  only  hope  Sam's  hap 
piness  will  repay  you." 

They  were  at  the  supper-table.  Alice  was 
still  shaky  from  that  moment  of  faintness, 
and  Cousin  Mary  was  far  too  good  a  nurse 
to  let  her  get  on  her  feet.  "Just  lie  there 
and  be  happy,  dear,"  she  had  said.  And 
Alice,  with  closed  eyes,  lay  there. 

"How  shall  I  tell  Neely?"  she  was  saying 
to  herself.  And  then:  " Cousin  Mary  won't 
have  to  sew  my  wedding-clothes.  And  I 
won't  embroider — anything."  At  that,  cu 
riously  enough,  she  suddenly  cried  a  little. 
The  other  dismay  was  too  great  for  tears. 

[63] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

Her  numb  mind  tried  to  grasp  it:  "Neely. 
I  suppose  he  will ...  be  disappointed."  The 
tears  ceased.  "I  suppose  I'll  never  see  him 
any  more." 

She  could  hear  the  voices  in  the  dining- 
room,  and  she  felt  a  surge  of  blind  anger. 
Why  were  they  doing  this  thing?  Pushing 
her  off  to  China !  And  all  the  happy  sewing 
she  was  going  to  do!  Again  the  tears  came. 
"I'll  have  to  say  good-by  to  him  forever;" 
— and  again  the  tears  dried. 

It  seemed  to  her  as  if  Neely  was  dead. 
She  felt  faint,  and  the  comfortable  voices 
in  the  dining-room  sounded  far  away.  But 
in  all  the  waves  and  billows  of  thought  that 
went  over  her  in  the  next  hour,  there  was 
not  one  which  even  remotely  suggested  that 
she  should  not  fulfil  the  promise  of  her  life. 

By  the  next  day  she  was  apparently  en 
tirely  herself,  except  that  her  lips  were  rather 
colorless,  and  Cousin  Mary  insisted  that  she 
should  not  go  to  church.  So  that  morning 
she  lay  very  still  on  her  little  bed  and  stared 
blindly  out  into  the  sunny  winter  day. 
Through  her  window  she  could  see  the 

[64] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

graveyard  lying  under  its  white  coverlet, 
and  the  bare  branches  of  the  elms  throw 
ing  lovely  shadows  back  and  forth  across 
the  fluted  columns  of  the  church  porch. 

By  and  by  the  bell  began  to  ring  with 
shrill  insistence,  and  before  it  stopped  she 
could  see  the  people  coming  in  twos  and 
threes  along  the  street.  Then  the  bell 
stopped  ringing,  and  the  bright  silence  of 
the  peaceful  day  fell  again.  Alice  lay  still. 
"  I've  got  to  think  it  out,"  she  said  to  herself. 
But  when  she  tried  to  think,  something 
seemed  to  slip  in  her  mind,  as  a  cog  might 
slip  in  a  machine.  Instead  of  thinking,  she 
listened  to  the  muffled  sound  of  singing : 

"All  people  that  on  earth  do  dwell, 
Sing  to  the  Lord  with  cheerful  voice; 
Him  serve  with  mirth — " 


a  <• 


1  Mirth !":  Could  there  ever  again  be 
such  a  thing  in  the  world  as  "mirth"?  She 
was  almost  frightened  by  the  resentment 
which  rose  like  a  wave  in  her  mind.  "I'm 
a  nice  person  to  go  as  a  missionary!"  she 
told  herself.  "Oh,  why  did  I  promise 

1 65] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

mother?  Why  did  I  make  that  vow?"  She 
rolled  over  on  her  face,  and  tried  to  pray ;  but 
all  she  could  say  was,  "Neely — Neely  ..." 

After  a  long  while  she  got  up  and  took 
her  little  writing-pad  on  her  knee  and  wrote 
the  inevitable  letter.  It  was  very  brief. 
When  you  announce  a  death,  what  is  there 
to  say  but  the  fact?  Alice's  "fact"  was  that 
the  hope  of  happiness  and  love  was  dead. 
So  all  she  needed  say  was : 

"We  can't  get  married.  .  .  ." 

After  she  had  written  these  words,  she 
drew  little  pictures  on  her  blotting-paper  for 
a  while;  then  she  wrote  some  more:  "Father 
is  going  to  marry  Cousin  Mary  so  I  may  be 
free  to  30  to  China.  So  I  am  going.  I  made 
a  vow  that  I  would.  ..." 

When  her  father  and  Cousin  Mary  came 
home  from  church,  Alice,  up  and  dressed, 
was  full  of  questions:  How  soon  could  she 
start?  Was  she  to  stay  at  the  Mission  in 
Canton,  or  go  directly  to  her  post?  What 
clothing  had  she  better  take? 

And  underneath  all  the  questions  lay, 
cold  and  still,  her  own  staggering,  speechless 

[66] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

fact.  She  tried  not  to  think  of  it — she  even 
tried  not  to  think  of  that  letter  she  had 
written  to  Neely,  and  when  it  would  reach 
him,  and  how  he  would  "take  it."  If  she 
thought  of  that,  she  would  break  down. 

Once  her  stunned  mind  framed  the  hope 
that  he  would  not  come  back  to  West 
Meadows  before  she  started  for  China.  "Be 
cause  if  he  does  ...  If  he  talks  to  me — 
oh,  will  I  be  strong  enough  to  say  'No'? 
I  will  have  to  put  my  hands  over  my  ears," 
she  thought.  She  wondered  about  her  power 
to  endure  Neely's  "talk,"  just  as,  long  ago, 
in  her  little  cotton  dress,  with  fagots  piled 
about  her  knees,  she  had  wondered  whether 
she  could  endure  the  flames  of  martyrdom ; 
and  now,  as  then,  it  was  Neely  who  was 
going  to  apply  the  testing  torch ! 

For  the  next  three  days  she  worked  her 
self  to  exhaustion,  so  that  when  night  fell, 
thought  could  be  drowned  in  sleep. 

On  the  third  day  came  a  despatch. 

"Who  on  earth  is  telegraphing  you, 
Sam?"  said  Mr.  Alden.  Telegrams  were  al 
most  unknown  at  the  parsonage,  and  his 

[67] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

first  thought  was  that  it  was  from  the  Board, 
making  some  final  arrangement  for  Alice's 
departure.  He  saw  her  tear  the  envelop 
open  and  heard  a  gasp.  .  .  .  "When  do 
they  want  you  to  start?"  he  asked. 

Speechlessly,  she  handed  him  the  de 
spatch  : 

You  can't  go  I  won't  let  you  I'm  coming  back 

C.  H. 

"Who's  coming  back?"  he  said,  bewil 
dered.  "  You  '  can't  go  '—go  where?  '  C.  H.' 
-who is 'C.  H.'?" 

"Neely,"  Alice  said,  faintly. 

And  then  the  truth  dawned  on  the  Rev 
erend  Mr.  Alden.  His  face  changed ;  amaze 
ment,  then  amusement, — then  consterna 
tion!  Again  Ellen  was  to  be  disappointed. 

"Of  course  I'm  glad  not  to  lose  Sam,"  he 
thought,  confusedly;  "but—  Then  he 
called,  loudly: 

"Mary!  Mary!" 

When  Mary  Alden,  hearing  her  name 
shouted,  appeared  in  the  doorway,  he  said, 
with  a  dismayed  laugh:  "Mary,  I  have  got 

[68] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

you  here  under  false  pretenses.  This  child 
is  going  to  be  married!" 

Miss  Alden  and  Alice  spoke  both  together : 

"But  I'm  not!" 

"But  she's  going  to  China!" 

"What  on  earth — "  Miss  Alden  began. 

"Alice  is  engaged  to  Neely  Henderson.  I 
couldn't  think  who  'C.  H.'  was,  for  a  min 
ute,  Sam.  Yes.  She  won't  go  to  China,  so 
I  suppose  you're  out  of  it — I  mean  our 
arrangement.  The  lamb  has  been  provided ; 
Isaac  doesn't  have  to  be  offered  up."  He 
frowned.  He  was  plainly  upset. 

Miss  Alden  sat  down.  She  was  confused 
to  the  point  of  irritation.  "Will  somebody 
please  explain?"  she  said. 

Alice,  standing,  trembling,  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  clutching  Neely's  telegram  so 
tightly  that  her  fingers  were  white,  said, 
briefly: 

"  I've  broken  the  engagement.  We  only 
got  engaged  on  Saturday." 

"Sam,"  her  father  said,  impatiently,  "I 
don't  understand.  Do  you  want  to  go  to 
China,  or  don't  you?" 

6  [69] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"I  want  to." 

"Well,  you  can" — Mr.  Alden  began,  and 
paused;  "but—  He  paused  again. 

Mary  Alden  was  silent ;  she  looked  at  her 
cousin  and  gave  a  little  shrug.  "I  seem  to 
have  put  my  foot  into  it,  William."  Then 
she  laid  her  hand  on  Alice's  shoulder.  "My 
dear,  what  do  you  want  to  do?  Marry 
Neely,  or  go  to  China?" 

"China,"  Alice  said,  in  a  whisper, — then 
slipped  away,  leaving  her  precipitate  elders 
looking  at  each  other,  confused,  and  even  a 
little  angry.  At  least  Cousin  Mary  was 
angry. 

"Why  didn't  she  tell  you  what  was  in  the 
air?"  she  said.  "Well,  of  course,  William, 
this  lets  us  out!" 

"But  if  she  wants  to  go?"  he  said.  "And 
— and — I  don't  want  to  be  let  out,  Mary." 

"I  am  sure  she  doesn't  want  to  go!"  said 
Miss  Alden ;  "  so  I  shall  just  retire  gracefully 
into  the  background." 

"She  won't  agree  to  that;  and,  after  all, 
Mary,  wouldn't  we  take  a  good  deal  upon 
ourselves,  you  and  I,  to  decide  her  life  for 

[70] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

her?  She's  got  to  make  up  her  own  mind. 
I  don't  think  she'd  ever  be  happy  if  she  felt 
that  she  might  have  kept  her  vow,  and 
didn't." 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  Cousin  Mary,  "I 
never  saw  such  a  mixed-up  mess!" 


CHAPTER  V 

CORNELIUS    HENDERSON'S    rush 
back  to  West  Meadows — leaving  that 
desired  capital  suspended  in  midair! 
— was  filled  with  furious  plans  of  what  he 
was  going  to  say  to  Alice's  father.    He  only 
hoped  that  when  he  should  present  his  argu 
ments  and  protests  and  entreaties  to  the 
unnatural   parent   who   was   thrusting   his 
daughter  out  into  heathendom,  he  would  be 
able  to  keep  his  temper! 

And  this  "Cousin  Mary" — what  kind  of 
a  woman  was  she,  anyhow,  wanting  to  get 
married  at  her  time  of  life?  She  was  looking 
for  a  home,  that  was  what  she  was  after! 
A  home!  Nobody  need  talk  to  him,  Neely 
Henderson,  about  devotion  to  the  cause  of 
missions;  he  could  see  through  her.  Alice 
was  too  pure  and  beautiful  to  suspect  any 
body  ;  she  thought  this  stepmother  business 
was  all  religious  purpose. 

[72] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"Religious  grandmother!"  said  Neely, 
staring  out  of  the  car  window  and  grinding 
his  teeth  with  rage.  "  I'll  have  to  be  civil  to 
her  father;  I  can't  let  Alice  see  how  I  feel 
about  him.  But  I  don't  know  how  I  am 
to  be  half  decent  to — that  woman !  Busting 
in  on  Alice's  plans,  just  to  feather  her  own 
nest.  Well,  if  she  wants  to  get  rid  of  Alice, 
I'll  take  her, — next  week !  She  needn't  pack 
her  off  to  China  so  she  can  get  a  home  for 
herself." 

He  reached  West  Meadows  Sunday  after 
noon,  and  stopped  at  the  parsonage  door  only 
long  enough  to  learn  that  Alice  had  gone,  as 
usual,  to  her  Sunday-school  class  in  the 
woods.  He  did  not  wait  even  to  say  How 
do  you  do?  to  Mr.  Alden — "I've  got  to 
straighten  Alice  out  first,"  he  told  himself. 
Aloud  he  said,  very  coldly,  to  Cousin  Mary, 
who  had  seen  him  tearing  up  the  path  to 
the  front  door  and  gone  to  welcome  him, 
"  I'll  drive  back  with  Alice."  Then  he  rushed 
off  for  a  four-mile  walk  through  the  snow, 
out  to  the  red  school -house.  When  it  came 
into  sight  among  the  pines  his  heart  rose 

[73] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

in  his  throat;  she  was  there,  alone,  and 
scared — poor  little  darling! — half  to  death. 
Well — he  would  save  her!  All  the  heathen 
in  the  world  should  not  rob  him  of  his  girl. 

Sunday-school  was  over;  the  loggers'  chil 
dren,  jostling  one  another  in  the  narrow 
doorway,  had  flocked  out  into  the  snow, 
the  girls  sputtering  at  the  cold,  the  boys 
molding  icy  snowballs  in  their  mittened 
hands;  then  their  voices,  shrill  and  raucous, 
had  died  away  up  the  lonely  road. 

Alice  was  alone  in  the  small,  close  room, 
where  a  melon-shaped  iron  stove  stood  be 
tween  two  tiers  of  battered  desks  that  were 
scarred  by  generations  of  jack-knives,  and 
stained  and  spotted  with  varying  tastes  in 
ink.  She  opened  all  the  windows  and  the 
frosty  air  flowed  in,  crystal  clear  and  clean, 
smelling  of  pines  and  glinting  with  the  level 
rays  of  the  great  copper  sun  that  was  slid 
ing  down  the  translucent  greenness  of  the 
western  sky. 

When  the  room  was  fresh  and  cold  she 
closed  the  windows,  put  some  small  birch 
logs  into  the  stove,  and  then  sat  down  at 

[74] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

one  of  the  little  desks  and  rested  her  chin 
in  the  palms  of  her  hands. 

Neely  had  squeezed  himself  into  this  same 
seat,  before  this  same  desk,  that  afternoon 
when  he  first  came  out  to  see  her  at  the 
school-house.  Remembering  it,  her  breath 
fluttered  into  a  sob.  "  Oh!"  she  said,  faintly. 
Then  she  put  her  hands  over  her  face  and 
bowed  her  head  on  the  desk. 

The  yellow  light  on  the  eastern  wall 
lifted  and  lifted,  then  suddenly  was  gone, 
—the  sun  had  dropped  below  the  pines,  be 
low  the  hills — and  the  five-o'clock  dusk  was 
flooding  the  room  like  a  tide.  The  birch  logs 
crackled  in  the  stove.  Suddenly  she  heard 
a  step  on  the  path.  As  she  raised  her  head 
to  listen,  Neely  burst  in: 

"  Alice!" 

Before  she  could  rise  he  flung  his  arms 
around  her,  lifted  her,  and  caught  her  rough 
ly  to  his  breast.  "I  won't  let  you  go,  you 
know,"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

Then  he  put  her  back  again  before  the 
little  desk,  and  knelt  down  beside  her.  He 
gave  her  no  chance  to  speak.  She  could 

[75] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

only  hide  her  face  on  his  shoulder  and 
listen  while  he  burst  out  with  all  the  pent- 
up  pain  and  fear  and  love  of  the  last  few 
days: 

"I'll  never  give  you  up!  You're  mine.  I 
don't  care  what  your  father  says — " 

It  wasn't  until  he  stopped  for  breath  that 
she  could  make  him  listen  to  her;  and  when 
she  spoke  his  rage  collapsed  with  a  complete 
ness  that  made  him  stammer: 

"Wh-what!  Mr.  Alden  isn't  making 
you  go?" 

"' Making  me'?  Of  course  not.  He  is 
willing.  That's  all." 

"But  he  isn't  urging  you?"  Neely  re 
peated,  incredulously. 

"I  don't  need  urging.    I  am  going." 

"Your  father  won't  let  you,  when  I  tell 
him—" 

"Yes,  he  will.  He  asked  Cousin  Mary  to 
marry  him  just  so  I  could." 

"You  belong  to  me!" 

"I  promised." 

"You  promised  me!" 

The  little  school-house  was  growing  dark, 

[76] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

and  the  fire  in  the  stove  was  out.  Only 
when  he  felt  her  shivering  would  he  stop 
talking.  Then  he  wrapped  her  up  in  the 
moth-eaten  buffalo-robe,  and,  to  keep  it 
tightly  about  her,  he  drove  with  one  hand 
all  the  way  back  to  West  Meadows. 

"  I  think  I  see  a  way  to  straighten  out  this 
business,"  he  said,  grimly;  but  he  did  not 
tell  her  what  the  way  was.  He  was  too 
busy  thinking  just  how  he  could  tell  Miss 
Alden  that  if  she  would  please  keep  out  of 
it,  the  "business"  would  settle  itself.  "If 
she  will  just  stop  marrying  Mr.  Alden,  Alice 
can't  go!  That's  the  thing  to  tell  her." 

He  was  so  busy  thinking  up  arguments  to 
make  Miss  Alden  stop  getting  married  that 
he  had  very  little  to  say  to  Alice.  She  had 
nothing  to  say  to  him — for  she,  too,  was 
busy,  bracing  herself  to  keep  her  vow 
against  the  flaming  "talk"  which  she  knew 
would  come  later.  So,  for  the  most  part,  on 
the  ride  home,  only  the  sleigh-bells  broke  the 
crystal  silence  of  the  winter  night.  But 
when  he  left  her  at  her  father's  door  he  did 
not  apply  any  torch;  he  only  said,  quietly: 

[77] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"I'm  coming  in  to-night  to  talk  to  Mr. 
Alden.  We  will  straighten  this  thing  out, 
darling." 

He  talked  to  Mr.  Alden  for  three  nights, 
and  days,  too — whenever  he  could  make  the 
minister  listen  to  him!  But  somehow  the 
thing  didn't  straighten  out.  Of  course  by 
this  time  Neely — so  ready  to  battle  against 
the  bulwarks  of  paternal  selfishness  and 
cousinly  sentimentality ! — had  admitted  that 
nobody  was  either  selfish  or  sentimental. 
Mr.  Alden  was  anxiously  impersonal:  Alice 
must  do  what  she  thought  right.  And  he 
thought  it  would  be  right  for  her  to  be  true 
to  her  promise  to  Neely.  "However,  that 
is  a  matter  for  her  own  conscience  to 
decide,"  he  ended,  with  a  worried  look. 

Cousin  Mary,  also  impersonal,  was  of  the 
same  opinion:  it  was  right  for  Alice  to  stay 
at  home.  "Still,  if  she  thinks  she  ought  to 
go,  she  can,"  said  Cousin  Mary,  much  per 
plexed. 

To  protest  against  such  negative  declara 
tions  was  like  striking  the  air.  Yet,  all  the 
same,  when  Neely  struck  out  to  get  his  girl, 

[78] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

his  blows  did  fall  upon  something  hard, 
something  that  resisted,  something  which 
did  not  yield,  which  stood  firm  and  said,  in 
a  whisper,  "No." 

On  that  third  night,  Alice,  worn  out  with 
the  struggle,  had  gone  to  bed,  leaving  her 
father  and  lover  arguing  in  the  study.  "  She 
insists,"  William  Alden  said,  "that  she  is 
vowed  to  the  Lord.  I  have  done  all  I  can 
for  you,  short  of  tying  her  to  the  bedpost 
—that  I  won't  do!" 

"But  she's  vowed  to  me!"  Cornelius  said, 
distractedly.  He  had  already  said  it  a 
dozen  times  in  the  last  hour. 

"I  know.  But  she  promised  her  mother. 
And,  Neely,  I'm  afraid — knowing  Sam — she 
would  never  be  happy  if  she  broke  her  word." 

"But  when  her  mother  died  Alice  stayed 
with  you?  That  was  breaking  her  word." 

"No;  then  she  only  deferred  going;  and 
now,"  Mr.  Alden  explained,  "she  doesn't 
have  to  stay  with  me,  because  my  cousin, 
Miss  Alden,  will — will  marry  me." 

"But  if  Miss  Alden  backs  out?"  Neely 
said,  eagerly. 

[79] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"That  would  be  too  much  like  forcing 
Alice  to  stay  at  home,"  the  minister  said, 
despairingly.  "Alice  must  gang  her  own 
gait,  when  it  comes  to  conscience.  And" — 
he  paused ;  it  was  not  easy  to  speak  of  him 
self  to  the  boy — "Alice's  mother  had  always 
hoped  that — that  I  would  be  moved  to  devote 
my  life  to  mission  work ;  and  I — didn't.  Her 
heart  was  set  on  Alice's  doing  it." 

"  I  don't  think  that  justifies  you  in  letting 
Alice  go  now,"  Neely  said,  bluntly.  "She 
has  never  wanted  to  be  a  missionary."  He 
get  on  his  feet  and  tramped  about  the  study. 
"I  can't  make  any  impression  on  her,"  he 
said;  "all  the  same,  I  won't  let  her  go.  Til 
tie  her  to  the  bedpost,  if  you  won't!  She 
loves  me  and  I  love  her,  and  I  won't  let 
her  go." 

"Well,  you'll  run  a  great  risk  if  you  force 
her,"  Alice's  father  said;  "7  wouldn't  dare 
to  do  such  a  thing." 

"I  shall  dare,"  said  Neely. 

But  even  as  they  spoke,  Cousin  Mary 
had  come  to  the  rescue.  She  had  been  very 
silent  during  these  last  few  days.  To  Mr. 

[80] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

Alden's  declaration  that  he  didn't  propose 
to  force  Alice's  conscience,  she  replied, 
briefly:  "We  must  do  whatever  is  best  for 
the  child,  of  course.  But  I'm  blessed  if  I 
know  what  is  best."  Consternation  at  what 
Neely  frankly  called  "the  box"  into  which 
her  offer  to  Mr.  Alden  had  put  all  four  of 
them,  was  making  her  half  sick.  "Why  was 
I  so  precipitate?"  she  reproached  herself. 
Yet  she  had  almost  nothing  to  say.  "I've 
put  my  foot  in  it  once,"  she  reflected;  "so 
the  best  thing  I  can  do  now  is  to  hold  my 
tongue." 

But  that  night  her  tongue  broke  loose. 
.  .  .  Neely  had  stayed  until  Mr.  Alden  was 
almost  obliged  to  show  him  the  door !  Now, 
when  the  lights  were  out  and  the  household 
was  settling  to  sleep,  Cousin  Mary  came  into 
Alice's  room,  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  bed. 

"I  have  tried  not  to  give  advice," 
she  said,  "because  I  know  that's  my  weak 
point — advising  people.  Besides,  of  course, 
I  realize  that  I  am  responsible  for  mixing 
things  up.  But,  really  and  truly,  I  think 
you  are  making  a  mistake." 

[81] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"I  promised  mother,"  Alice  said,  faintly. 

"And  you  promised  Neely,"  said  Cousin 
Mary.  ''Now,  Alice,  listen:  When  one 
promise  jostles  another,  one  of  'em  isn't  a 
promise." 

Alice  agreed :  "  The  one  to  Neely  isn't." 

"Well,  that's  as  you  look  at  it,"  said  Miss 
Alden.  "Personally,  I  think  it  is.  But 
never  mind  that.  You've  got  to  do  what 
you  think  is  right,  not  what  I  think  is 
right.  And  I  suppose  what  would,  or  would 
not  make  you  happy,  is  not  a  thing  for  you 
to  consider?" 

"No!"  Alice  agreed,  passionately.  "My 
happiness  has  nothing  to  do  with  it!"  It 
was  a  relief  to  her,  after  these  days  of 
Neely 's  arguments  for  her  happiness,  to  be 
told  the  truth. 

"I  should  think  his  happiness  might  be  a 
consideration?"  Cousin  Mary  said. 

Alice  slowly  shook  her  head;  but  she 
gasped  faintly  with  pain. 

"Of  course,  you'll  get  your  happiness  out 
of  being  a  missionary,"  said  Miss  Alden; 
"I  realize  that." 

[82] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

Alice  was  silent. 

"But  we  will  only  consider  what  is  right. 
We'll  leave  the  question  of  happiness,  for 
either  of  you,  out  of  it.  It  wouldn't  be 
right  for  you  to  leave  your  father — while  he 
needs  you?" 

"No,"  Alice  said.  "That's  why  I  didn't 
go  when  mother  died." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Alden,  and  paused; 
then  she  sighed  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
("Here  I  am,  putting  my  foot  into  it 
again!")  "Well,  Alice,  I  suppose  I've  got 
to  put  the  screws  on:  You  can't  go  and 
leave  him  now  any  more  than  you  could 
two  years  ago." 

"Can't  leave  father?    But  you—" 

"I— what?" 

"You  are  going  to  marry  him." 

"I'm  not." 

"You  are— not ?" 

"Why  should  I?"  Miss  Alden  asked. 

Alice,  in  her  bewilderment,  sat  up  in  bed 
and  looked  at  her  cousin.  "Because — "  she 
began. 

"You  needn't  think,"  said  Cousin  Mary, 

[83] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

''that  /  am  going  to  help  you  break  that 
boy's  heart!  Go  off  as  a  missionary,  if  you 
want  to.  But  if  you  do,  William  will  have 
nobody  to  look  after  him." 

Alice  fell  back  on  her  pillows,  breathless. 

"I  am  net  going  to  do  your  work,"  said 
Miss  Alden;  "so  it  looks  to  me  as  if  you'd 
have  to  stay  at  home.  And,  that  being  the 
case,  you  might  as  well,  incidentally,  marry 
that  poor,  distracted  Neely." 

Alice  threw  her  arms  around  her  and 
burst  out  crying.  "Oh,  I  would  have 
gone!"  she  said.  "I  would  have  gone!" 

"So  it's  settled,"  said  Miss  Alden,  the 
next  day;  "and  it  lets  you  out,  William. 
But  I  declare  I  was  never  made  to  be  a 
surgeon  and  operate  on  other  people's  con 
sciences!" 

"It  seems  like  interference  with  what 
Alice  thinks  is  right;  it  seems  like  settling 
her  life  for  her,"  the  minister  said,  frowning. 

"Well !  Heaven  knows  the  other  plan  was 
'interference'!" 

"No;   that  was  just  letting  her  go  back 

[84] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

to  her  own  idea  of  what  was  right,"  he  in 
sisted.  He  was  very  much  disturbed.  "Of 
course  I'm  glad  to  have  her  stay  at  home, 
for  purely  selfish  reasons.  But  for  Ellen's 
sake—" 

"Now,  William,  be  sensible,"  Miss  Alden 
urged.  "This  is  plain  common  sense.  Of 
course  she  ought  to  marry  Neely.  I  rushed 
in,  with  the  best  intentions  in  the  world, 
and  upset  the  whole  kettle  of  fish.  Now  I 
shall  simply  rush  out.  That's  all  there  is 
to  it!" 

"But  if  you  'rush  out,'  as  you  call  it,  we 
shall  be  preventing  Alice  from  doing  what 
she  feels  she  ought  to  do.  I  can't  tell  you, 
Mary,  how  I  dread  anything  like  interfer 
ing.  I  always  have.  And,  besides,  I  think 
our  plan  was — very  sensible." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Miss  Alden. 

7 


CHAPTER  VI 

THINGS  settled  back,  after  the  flurry 
of  excitement,  into  the  old  pleasant 
ways.  Cousin  Mary  spent  the  rest 
of  the  month  with  them;  Alice  took  care 
of  her  father  and  dreamed  of  Neely ;  Neely, 
as  time  passed,  added  dollar  by  dollar  to 
his  precious  balance,  and  dreamed  of  Alice. 
Their  engagement  made  no  practical  dif 
ference  in  their  lives.  As  for  that  bridal 
sewing,  which  Alice  had  looked  forward  to 
and  then  resigned,  she  took  it  up  now  as 
a  long  and  leisurely  occupation.  But  some 
times  as  she  sewed  she  sighed. 

There  was  no  question  of  the  immediate 
marriage  Neely  desired ;  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  secured  a  little  capital  for  the 
quarry,  and  that  he  was  convinced  that  he, 
personally,  had  enough  to  "love  on" — "I 
have  a  balance  of  eight  hundred  and  fifty 
in  the  bank,"  Neely  boasted — Mr.  Alden 
would  not  hear  of  their  getting  married. 

[86] 


THE  PROMISES  OF  ALICE 

"Wait  a  couple  of  years,"  he  said;  "or 
perhaps  in  a  year  and  a  half — we'll  see." 

In  his  own  mind  he  meant  to  let  them 
marry  in  a  year  and  a  half.  "When  they 
do,  of  course  they  will  have  to  live  with  me 
for  a  while,"  he  had  told  Cousin  Mary; 
"they  wouldn't  have  money  enough  to  set 
up  for  themselves.  That's  the  only  thing 
that  will  reconcile  me  to  being  a  millstone 
round  their  necks!" 

"I'd  let  'em  be  poor  together,  now,"  she 
had  urged;  "there's  nothing  like  being  poor 
together,  when  young  people  get  married." 
But  William  Alden  wouldn't  agree  to  that— 
"so  I  might  as  well  go  home,"  Cousin  Mary 
told  herself.  And  she  went  back  to  Boston 
to  her  own  house,  that  looked  out  on  the 
square  inclosed  in  its  rusty  iron  fence,  and 
on  the  big  lindens  that  shadowed  the  two 
little  granite  statues.  "After  all,"  she  re 
flected,  "William  and  I  are  too  old  to  make 
experiments.  Perhaps  I  can  go  to  Europe 
next  winter.  Oh,  yes;  it's  better  this  way. 
Tm  satisfied!" 

In  fact,  as  the  winter  passed,  everybody 

[87] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

seemed  to  be  satisfied.  The  parish  was  en 
tirely  contented,  because,  although  it  had 
not  a  missionary  of  its  own,  the  minister 
displayed  no  intention  of  inflicting  upon 
it  a  second  wife,  whom  none  of  the  eli 
gible  ladies  would  have  thought  worthy 
of  him!  Alice's  father  was  satisfied  be 
cause  Alice  was  happy.  Neely,  because 
Providence — and  Cousin  Mary — had,  as  he 
expressed  it,  "knocked  China  higher  than  a 
kite."  Indeed,  Neely  was  so  fully  satisfied 
that  he  accepted  the  year  and  a  half  of  wait 
ing  with  fairly  good  grace.  He  never  ad 
mitted  the  possibility  of  its  being  two  years. 

"I've  got  a  balance,"  he  boasted  to  Alice 
in  September,  "of  twelve  hundred  dollars. 
I  bet  it'll  be  sixteen  hundred  by  spring. 
This  time  next  year  I'll  have  you!  When 
your  father  sees  how  well  the  quarry's  doing, 
he'll  cave;  you  see  if  he  doesn't!"  So 
Neely  was  satisfied. 

Everybody  was  satisfied  but  Alice.  Al 
ways,  in  the  back  of  her  mind,  lay  the 
knowledge  that  she  had  not  been  honest. 
"I  could  have  gone,"  she  told  herself  over 

[88] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

and  over;  "and  I  pretended  to  believe  I 
couldn't."  Sometimes,  when  she  was  very 
unhappy,  she  told  Neely  so.  "If  I  had  in 
sisted  on  going,  Cousin  Mary  would  have 
given  in  and  married  father."  When  she 
said  things  like  this,  her  eyes  would  fill 
with  self-reproach,  until  he  had  a  desperate 
feeling  that  he  must  do  something — any 
thing! — to  take  the  pain  away.  "If  I  could 
just  get  her,"  he  used  to  think,  toiling  down 
in  the  bowels  of  the  quarry,  "I  could  make 
her  forget  those  wretched  Chinese!" 

Then  suddenly  he  got  her  .  .  . ! 

"It's  the  sort  of  thing,"  Alice  gasped, 
"that  happens  in  story-books!" 

Certainly  it  doesn't  happen  to  most  peo 
ple  outside  of  story-books.  .  .  . 

The  story-book  happening — they  had 
been  engaged  a  little  more  than  a  year — 
was  the  death  of  the  uncle  in  California,  and 
a  legacy  to  Alice  of  ten  thousand  dollars. 

It  came  out  of  a  clear  sky.  Nobody  in 
West  Meadows  had  heard  that  the  uncle 
had  died.  Alice  hardly  knew  of  his  existence. 
William  Alden  had  forgotten  everything 

[89] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

about  him,  except  that  somewhere,  in  the 
back  of  his  mind,  he  dimly  remembered  the 
Californian's  reply  to  that  appeal,  made  so 
many  years  ago,  for  help  to  send  Alice  to 
China.  He  remembered  that,  because  it 
had  made  him  laugh — until  he  saw  that  it 
made  his  wife  cry;  then  he  had  been  prop 
erly  serious.  But  now  the  advocate  of  the 
conversion  of  Christian  Chinese  back  to 
the  faith  of  their  fathers  was  dead,  and  in 
his  will  had  left  ten  thousand  dollars  to 
"my  niece,  who  wanted  to  corrupt  the  Con 
fucians,  but  wisely  decided  not  to." 

"What  does  he  mean  by  that?"  Alice 
said. 

Mr.  Alden  chuckled  in  spite  of  himself. 
"I'm  afraid  your  uncle  was  a  good  deal  of 
a  heathen,"  he  said.  "Ten  thousand  dol 
lars!" 

It  was  a  May  day  when  the  great  news 
came — a  lawyer's  letter,  inclosing  a  copy  of 
the  will.  Mr.  Alden  had  brought  the  letter 
home  at  noon,  and  Alice,  opening  it  casually 
at  the  dinner-table,  said,  "What  on  earth 
is  this?" 

[90] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

Her  father  put  out  a  hand  for  the 
sheets  of  paper,  glanced  over  the  first 
page,  and  whistled.  "You  are  an  heiress, 
my  dear!" 

But  when  he  explained,  Alice  said  it  must 
be  a  joke.  "Me?  Why,  but  he  didn't  know 
me!" 

Then  Mr.  Alden  read  the  paragraph  about 
the  Confucians.  "Now  you  two  youngsters 
can  get  married!"  he  said. 

Alice,  whose  heart,  from  the  minute  that 
she  understood  what  had  happened  to  her, 
had  been  singing  over  the  same  words, 
grew  a  little  pink,  and  said,  "I  don't  know 
how  Neely  will  feel  about  that." 

"Don't  be  a  humbug,  Sam,"  her  father 
retorted;  "you  might  go  out  to  the  quarry 
this  afternoon  and  ask  if  Barkis  is  willin'." 

"Let's  go!"  she  said. 

"Better  go  down  to  Boston  while  Cousin 
Mary  is  there" — Cousin  Mary  was  planning 
to  start  in  the  autumn  upon  the  long-delayed 
trip  to  Europe — "and  buy  your  wedding- 
dress." 

At  that  she  grew  very  pink;    but  she 

[91] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

could  not  say  much,  except,  "Neely  will 
have  to  decide." 

That  afternoon  she  and  her  father  drove 
out  to  Bald  Head  in  the  minister's  shabby, 
sagging  old  buggy.  They  drew  up  before 
the  quarry  shed,  and  Mr.  Alden  got  out 
and,  going  over  to  the  shallow  excavation, 
watched  Neely  guiding  the  long  arm  of  the 
derrick  that  was  shifting  a  cube  of  marble, 
glimmering  white  in  the  May  sunshine. 
When  the  block  rested  on  the  ground,  Mr. 
Alden  signaled  Neely  with  his  whip.  The 
young  man — owner  and  boss  and  workman 
all  in  one! — looking  up,  saw  his  visitors  and 
waved  his  hand;  then  clambered  to  the 
green  brink  of  the  quarry.  Alice  hitched 
old  Jim,  and  came  over  to  stand  beside  her 
father,  who  was  bursting  with  news. 

"Well,  young  man,"  he  said,  "so  you  are 
going  to  marry  money,  are  you?" 

"Sir?"  said  Neely. 

"You  are  looking  out  for  a  rich  wife," 
Mr.  Alden  declared. 

"What's  the  joke?"  Cornelius  inquired, 
grinning. 

[92] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"Neely!  Something  wonderful  has  hap 
pened!"  Alice  broke  in.  She  caught  his 
grimy  hand  in  hers.  "  Neely,  there's  money. 
For  the  quarry." 

"What!  More  capital?"  His  eyes  started 
with  astonishment.  "Alice!  Tell  me!  What 
in  thunder — who?" 

"Me,"  she  said. 

Neely  looked  at  Mr.  Alden. 

"Her  uncle  in  California — "  he  began; 
but  Alice  broke  in : 

"It  happens  in  novels.  Neely,  you  can 
buy  the  new  machine." 

"Would  you  mind  saying  what  has  hap 
pened?"  Neely  asked,  patiently. 

The  minister  told  him,  and  added:  "I'm 
ashamed  to  say  I'd  forgotten  the  old  fel 
low's  existence !  So  nobody  can  accuse  me 
of  waiting  for  dead  men's  shoes." 

"Why  should  he  have  thought  of  me?" 
Alice  pondered. 

"He  puts  it  rather  queerly,"  her  father 
said,  and  quoted  the  remark  about  the 
Confucians. 

Neely  whistled.    "You'd  never  have  got 

[93] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

it,  Alice,  if  you'd  gone  to  China,"  he  said. 
His  voice  was  almost  awed  with  astonish 
ment. 

' 'You  can  buy  the  large  engine,"  Alice 
said. 

Neely  slapped  his  thigh  with  excitement. 
"  Of  course  I  won't — with  your  money !  But, 
by  Jove!"  he  said;  then  looked  at  her 
father.  "You  won't  say  'no,'  now?  My 
balance  to-day  is  nineteen  hundred  and 
seventy-five,  sir.  You'll  let  me  have  her 
right  off?" 

"Oh,  you'll  get  that  engine,"  William 
Alden  said,  chuckling;  "I  never  saw  such 
barefaced  desire  to  marry  a  girl  for  her 
money.  She  probably  won't  get  it  for  some 
months — perhaps  not  for  a  year.  Oh  yes; 
she  can  get  married,  if  you're  willin'." 

"  She  must  put  it  into  government  bonds," 
Neely  said.  "No,  Alice,  of  course  the 
quarry  won't  buy  engines  out  of  your 
money!" 

"Well,  I  hope  you'll  let  her  use  some  of 
it  to  furnish  her  house  with,"  Mr.  Alden 
said.  "You'll  have  enough  to  go  to  house- 

[941 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

keeping  on,  if  Alice  buys  the  furniture, 
without  touching  your  nineteen  hundred 
and  seventy-five." 

"We're  not  going  to  leave  you,  father," 
Alice  said,  softly. 

William  Alden  looked  disturbed.  "I 
really  wish  you  would,"  he  said ;  then  added, 
as  if  to  explain:  "Young  married  people 
ought  to  live  by  themselves.  I'll  say, 
'Bless  you,  my  children,'  any  time  now." 

Then  they  all  sat  down  on  the  grass,  on 
the  edge  of  the  quarry,  and  the  two  men 
talked  and  talked,  and  Alice  looked  off  at 
the  shimmer  of  young  birch  leaves  and  the 
soft  gloom  of  hemlocks  on  Ascutney's 
flank,  and  Jim,  pawing  the  grass  by  the 
roadside,  wished  somebody  would  give  him 
an  apple. 

But  it  wasn't  until  the  day  and  hour  were 
fixed  that  old  Jim's  nose  was  turned  toward 
home;  and  then  he  had  a  heavier  load  to 
carry,  for  Neely  squeezed  himself  in  between 
the  dashboard  and  his  future  father-in- 
law's  knees,  and  went  back  to  West  Mead 
ows,  to  stay  to  supper  and  "decide  things"! 

[95] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

There  was  really  nothing  much  to  decide, 
except  how  soon  Cousin  Mary  could  get  up 
to  West  Meadows  to  help  Alice  with  her 
sewing,  and  also  to  make  Mr.  Alden  see 
that  the  whole  story-book  affair  could  not 
change  Alice's  duty  to  her  father. 

"If  I  couldn't  leave  you  to  go  to  China, 
how  could  I  leave  you  just  to  get  married?" 
Alice  insisted.  "Why,  I  couldn't/'  she 
said;  "Cousin  Mary  will  say  so." 

When  Neely  said  good  night  she  was  very 
quiet.  Up-stairs,  in  her  own  room,  she  kneft 
a  long  time  by  her  open  window,  looking 
out  into  the  May  darkness.  They  were  to  be 
married  in  two  weeks,  and  were  to  live  here 
in  the  parsonage;  for,  though  by  and  by 
they  would  be  rich — according  to  Alice's 
standards — of  course,  as  she  had  said,  she 
could  never  leave  her  father.  So  everything 
was  perfect.  It  dazed  her  somehow.  It 
almost  frightened  her  to  be  so  happy.  "I 
don't  deserve  to  be,"  she  said;  "for  I  could 
have  gone,  and  I  didn't." 

But,  in  spite  of  this  aching  self-knowledge, 
the  days — the  hurrying  fourteen  days! — 

[96] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

were  full  of  happiness.  It  was  only  at 
night,  when  she  knelt  down  to  say  her 
prayers,  that  the  pang  came;  though  once 
it  did  stab  her  into  a  sort  of  cry  to  Neely : 
"I  have  never  had  to  do  anything  hard  in 
my  life;  I've — shirked.  Yet  see  how  happy 
I  am !  I  feel  as  if  I  had  stolen  my  happiness 
from  God.  I  wouldn't  be  'burned  alive." 

The  pain  in  her  eyes  almost  frightened 
him.  "Her  conscience  is  bothering  her," 
he  thought,  uneasily.  "  I  wish  China  was  in 
tne  depths  of  the  sea!"  ...  "If  I  don't  get 
her  right  off,  something  will  happen!" 

But  the  next  week  he  got  her. 


CHAPTER  VII 

COUSIN  MARY  says  she  will  take  us 
in,"  William  Alden  said.  "I  wrote 
her  to  know  whether  it  would  be  con 
venient  to  have  us." 

This  was  in  October ;  there  had  been  five 
months  of  that  "stolen"  happiness;  five 
months  during  which  the  young  husband 
grew  more  absorbed  in  his  wife,  who  was 
happy,  too;  but  not — "not  so  happy  as  I 
am,"  Neely  thought,  soberly.  She  was  cer 
tainly  very  quiet,  and  too  absent-minded, 
for  a  bride;  "preoccupied  and  uneasy,"  her 
father  described  it  to  himself.  "  I  was  afraid 
she  would  reproach  herself,"  he  thought; 
"yet,  of  course,  this  is  the  right  and  natural 
thing  for  her — to  be  married  and  settled 
down." 

"If  she  had  a  house  of  her  own,  she'd 
take  more  interest  in  things,"  he  told  Neely. 
"I  want  you  to  go  and  live  by  yourselves." 

But  Neely  wouldn't  listen  to  that.    "Her 

[98] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

conscience  would  bother  her  more  than  ever 
if  we  did  that,"  he  said. 

And  now  the  time  had  come  when  Alice 
was  to  receive  her  little  fortune,  and  they 
were  all  three  going  down  to  Boston  to  get 
it;  for  the  lawyer  in  San  Francisco,  who 
had  sent  the  will  in  the  spring,  had  arranged 
for  all  the  business  of  transferring  the  money 
to  be  put  through  in  the  office  of  a  Massa 
chusetts  correspondent.  And  if  Miss  Alden 
—who  had  rented  her  house  and  was  to 
start  off  on  that  long-desired  trip  to  Europe 
— was  not  too  much  packed  up,  they  meant 
to  quarter  themselves  upon  her  unfailing 
hospitality. 

Cousin  Mary's  answer  to  Mr.  Alden's 
letter,  limited  to  ten  carefully  counted 
words,  reassured  them  as  to  room  and  con 
venience;  so  on  Monday  morning  off  they 
went.  Even  as  they  set  foot  on  the  cindery 
step  of  the  little  car  on  the  branch  road,  the 
holiday  spirit  of  the  sparkling  October  day 
fell  upon  the  two  men. 

"Let's  go  on  a  spree;  let's  make  a  week 
of  it!"  Alice's  father  said. 

[99] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"I'm  with  you!"  Neely  agreed. 

"This  is  the  time  of  the  Annual  Meet 
ings,"  said  Mr.  Alden.  "Mary  and  I  will 
go  and  hear  the  returned  missionaries — 
while  Alice  is  buying  hoopskirts." 

"I'm  going  to  the  meetings,  too,"  Alice 
said,  in  her  brief  way;  "but  what  shall  I  do 
with  the  money  when  the  lawyer  gives  it 
to  me?  Leave  it  in  my  trunk?  I  hope 
Cousin  Mary's  girl  is  honest!" 

"Better  keep  it  in  your  stocking,"  her 
father  advised  her.  "Why,  Sam — you  little 
goose! — he'll  give  you  a  check — " 

"And  you'll  deposit  it  instanter,"  said 
Neely. 

"Did  you  suppose  you  would  receive 
it  in  one -dollar  bills?"  William  Alden 
said. 

"I  suppose  I  did,"  Alice  confessed;  and 
her  father  and  husband  laughed  so  loudly 
that  the  conductor,  collecting  the  tickets  a 
dozen  seats  ahead,  turned  around  and  looked 
at  them. 

In  Boston  they  went  at  once  to  Cousin 
Mary's  house,  where  the  leaves  of  the  wis- 

[100] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

tana  over  the  front  door  were  yellowing  in 
the  autumnal  sunshine. 

"You  do  look  packed  up!"  Mr.  Alden 
said  to  their  hostess  as  he  steered  his  way 
among  the  trunks  in  the  front  hall.  "When 
do  you  sail,  Mary?" 

"Next  week,"  she  said,  happily.  "I  had 
great  luck  in  renting  my  house!" 

William  Alden  sighed.  "I'll  miss  you," 
he  said.  He  was  rather  silent  at  dinner, 
which  gave  Neely  the  chance  to  ask  just 
what  sights  he  must  take  Alice  to  see,  and 
try  to  get  the  maddening  complexities  of  the 
various  car  routes  into  his  head. 

After  dinner  he  and  Alice  started  off  to 
wander  about  the  pleasant  old  city  and  see 
everything  the  guide-book  told  them  was 
important,  and  turn  up,  finally,  at  a  church 
that  overlooked  the  Common,  just  in  time 
for  a  late  afternoon  meeting. 

But  William  Alden  and  Cousin  Mary 
stayed  at  home  and  talked  things  over — 
Europe,  and  West  Meadows,  and  the  amaz 
ing  good  luck  that  had  come  to  Alice.  It 
was  a  sort  of  mutual-congratulation  time. 

8  [ 101  ] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"Alice  wants  Neely  to  buy  a  lot  of  ma 
chinery  for  the  quarry,"  Mr.  Alden  said; 
"but  Neely  is  for  investing  the  whole 
amount  in  government  bonds." 

"  Of  course  he's  right,"  said  Miss  Alden. 

"I  do  wish,"  the  minister  said,  "they 
would  set  up  their  own  Lares  and  Penates 
and  not  have  me  on  their  hands." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Cousin  Mary. 

When  the  young  people  came  home  their 
elders  felt  a  little  clouding  of  the  joyous 
atmosphere  of  the  morning.  Alice  answered 
her  cousin's  questions  about  the  missionary 
meeting  listlessly,  and  Neely  watched  her 
with  troubled  eyes. 

"Headache,  Alice?"  Miss  Alden  asked. 
"Go  and  lie  down.  We  won't  have  supper 
until  half  past  six." 

Alice  tried  to  smile,  but  admitted  that  she 
was  tired.  "Yes,  I'll  lie  down,  thank  you, 
Cousin  Mary." 

They  heard  her  go  slowly  up-staii3,  and 
when  her  door  closed  her  father  turned  to 
Neely.  "Alice  is  upset  about  something?" 

The  young  man  nodded.     "We  went  to 

[102] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

one  of  those  confounded  meetings  this  after 
noon  ;  and  there  was  a  man  just  home  from 
China,  and  it — well,  I  suppose  it  sort  of 
brought  things  back  to  Alice.  She's  been — 
reproaching  herself  again,"  he  said,  sighing. 

"Very  morbid  in  her!"  Cousin  Mary  said. 

"I  wish  she'd  forget  the  'heathen  Chi 
nee,'"  William  Alden  said. 

"You  see,"  Cornelius  explained  to  Miss 
Alden,  "always,  back  in  her  mind,  is  the 
feeling  that  she  gave  up  the  work  just  for 
her  own  happiness.  It — it  sort  of  rankles, 
you  know." 

"She  is  the  stuff  that  martyrs  are  made 
of,"  her  father  said;  "she  gets  her  con 
science  from  her  mother." 

"Conscience  that  isn't  hitched  up  with 
common  sense  is  a  mighty  dangerous  thing," 
Miss  Alden  said. 

"I  wish  she'd  hitch  up  to  common  sense 
as  to  living  with  me,"  the  minister  mur 
mured.  "I  keep  telling  them,"  he  said  to 
Miss  Alden,  "that  they  ought  to  be  by 
themselves,  but  they  won't  listen  to  me." 

"You   bet   we   won't!"    Cornelius   said, 

[103] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

good-naturedly.  "Why,  Alice  wouldn't  have 
a  happy  minute,  and  neither  would  I.  You 
understand,  don't  you,  Cousin  Mary?  So 
long  as  she  is  taking  care  of  Mr.  Alden, 
there's  a  kind  of  justification  in  her  mind 
about — about  China,  you  know." 

"I  could  have  a  housekeeper — "  Mr. 
Alden  began. 

"Of  all  uncomfortable  things!"  said 
Cousin  Mary. 

"Alice  would  never  agree  to  it,"  Neely  said. 

Mr.  Alden  sighed. 

The  next  morning  was  to  be  very  excit 
ing  ;  they  were  all  four  to  go  to  the  lawyer's 
office  and  Alice  was  to  receive  the  legacy. 
But  really  the  visit  was  very  tame;  there 
was  some  talk  between  Mr.  Alden  and  Mr. 
Holmes;  some  questions  about  her  uncle; 
some  brief  remarks  about  his  death;  a  jest 
or  two  upon  "rich  women,"  and  joking  ad 
vice  to  Neely  not  to  invest  it  all  in  wildcats. 
Then  the  great  moment  was  over;  and, 
accompanied  by  Mr.  Holmes — who  had 
good-naturedly  offered  to  introduce  Alice  at 
his  own  bank  so  she  might  open  an  account 

[104] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

—they  all  trooped  out  to  the  elevator  and 
dropped  swiftly  down  from  the  twelfth 
floor  to  the  first,  the  check,  in  one  of  Mr. 
Holmes's  envelops,  clasped  tightly  in  Alice's 
hand. 

"I  don't  feel  any  richer,"  she  said. 

"If  I  took  it  away  from  you,  you'd  feel 
poorer,"  Miss  Alden  told  her. 

But  Alice  said  no;  just  a  piece  of  paper 
didn't  make  you  feel  richer.  At  the  bank 
the  "piece  of  paper"  was  exchanged  for  a 
little  narrow  book  full  of  more  pieces  of 
paper,  and  Alice  was  instructed  in  the  mys 
teries  of  drawing  a  check.  After  all  this 
"high  finance,"  as  Neely  called  it,  was  at 
tended  to,  they  said  good -by  to  the  friendly 
lawyer,  and  then  stood  on  the  steps  of  the 
bank  and  looked  at  one  another. 

"Well!"  said  Mr.  Alden. 

"What  next?"  said  Cousin  Mary. 

"To  keep  up  the  excitement,  let's  go  to 
Park  Street  Church  and  hear  some  ad 
dresses.  Alice,  being  the  wealthy  member 
of  society,  can  put  enough  into  the  contri 
bution-box  for  all  of  us." 

[105] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"Afterward,  I'm  going  shopping  with 
Cousin  Mary,"  said  Alice;  she  was  flushed 
with  excitement  and  a  curious  sense  of 
power;  she  could  buy — anything!  "I  never 
in  all  my  life,"  she  said,  "had  more  than 
five  dollars  at  one  time  to  spend!" 

But  when,  a  little  later,  they  all  four  were 
seated  in  the  dusky  vestry  of  Park  Street 
Church,  the  excitement  ebbed;  after  all,  it 
was  just  "money  in  the  bank."  Neely  would 
have  to  "invest  it,"  as  Mr.  Holmes  had  said. 

So,  listening  to  the  speeches  and  prayers, 
she  fell  back  again  into  her  own  thoughts. 
When  the  long  prayer  came  she  was  so 
abstracted  that  she  forgot  to  rise,  and  after 
ward,  though  she  held  her  half  of  the  hymn- 
book  with  Neely,  she  did  not  seem  to  see 
the  words;  at  any  rate,  she  didn't  sing. 
In  the  afternoon,  when  she  and  Cousin 
Mary  went  shopping,  she  didn't  hear  Miss 
Alden's  ponderings  as  to  the  comparative 
lasting  quality  of  huckaback  and  damask 
for  towels. 

"Would  you  rather  have  them  fringed  or 
hemstitched?"  said  Cousin  Mary. 

[106] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"There's  a  meeting  at  four,"  Alice  said. 

"Alice!  Come  out  of  the  clouds!  We 
must  decide  about  these  towels." 

"Neely  will  meet  me  at  the  church," 
Alice  said,  absently. 

Neely  had  agreed  to  be  on  hand  at  this 
four-o'clock  meeting,  rather  against  his 
wish ;  for,  as  he  had  confided  to  Miss  Alden, 
"any  more  missionary  talk  will  just  tear 
her  all  up  again!"  This  particular  talk  even 
tore  Cornelius  a  little. 

A  young  woman — a  saint ! — white-haired, 
old-eyed,  told  of  her  work  in  the  African 
jungle.  ...  It  was  a  story  so  terrible  and 
so  simple,  so  hideous  and  of  such  exalted 
beauty,  that  the  men  and  women  who  lis 
tened  did  not  know  that  the  tears  were  fall 
ing  down  their  cheeks.  Even  Neely's  eyes 
blurred  once,  and  he  said,  under  his  breath, 
"Gosh!".  .  .  But  Alice's  eyes  were  dry. 
Alice  was  unmoved.  Alice — safe  at  home 
in  America !  Comfortable !  Married !  Rich ! 

Cornelius,  looking  at  her,  was  startled  at 
the  whiteness  of  her  face.  "Alice!  Are  you 
faint,  dear?"  he  whispered. 

[107] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"No."  She  motioned  with  her  hand  that 
he  should  be  silent.  "Listen,"  she  said. 

One  could  not  help  listening  when  the 
speaker  said,  with  sudden  tenderness : 

"Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  for  you!  You  saved, 
safe,  happy  people,  who  want  to  help,  but 
who  have  to  stay  here  at  home  and  do  the 
immediate  duties  of  men  and  women,  of 
husbands  and  wives,  of  children  and  parents! 
You  have  to  do  these  duties  instead  of 
coming  over  to  Africa.  I  know  you  do. 
I  am  not  reproaching  you  for  being  here 
instead  of  there,  for,  oh!  I  know  you  wish 
you  could  be  there!  But  you  cannot  be. 
So,  let  me,  dear  people,  dear,  dear  people, 
let  me  be  you!  Let  me  be  your  hands  and 
feet,  let  me  be  your  heart!  Let  my  lips 
speak  your  tenderness,  my  life  show  your 
self-sacrifice,  your  courage.  Let  me  go 
into  the  jungle,  so  that  you  may  go,  too. 
Let  me  tell  those  who  sit  in  darkness  of  a 
great  light.  Yes — yes!  it  will  be  you  who 
will  tell  them.  For  your  spirit  drives  me 
into  the  wilderness!"  She  paused;  in  her 

white  face,  under  the  white  hair,  her  eyes 
.r  108  ] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

were  like  torches,  her  whole  face  seemed  to 
listen — listen :  "  I  hear" — she  put  her  cupped 
hand  to  her  ear: — "I  hear  you,  speaking  in 
the  Shadow  of  Death,  words  of  Eternal  Life !" 

Alice  was  leaning  forward,  one  hand  on 
the  back  of  the  pew  in  front  of  her,  the  other 
gripping  Neely's  arm.  Suddenly  she  began 
to  fumble  with  the  catch  of  her  pocketbook ; 
but  when  she  opened  it,  Neely  saw  there 
were  only  some  silver  pieces  and  a  one- 
dollar  bill. 

"It's  all  I  have,"  she  said,  under  her 
breath.  He  smiled,  and  the  tap  on  his  breast 
pocket  reminded  her.  "Oh!"  she  whis 
pered.  "Why,  I  forgot!  Can  I — can  I 
give — five  dollars?"  Then  she  made  a  help 
less  gesture,  as  if  to  say,  "but  what  is  five 
dollars?  Nothing!"  The  tears  stood  in  her 
eyes.  "I'd  like  to  give  five  dollars,"  she 
began — then  stopped,  for  some  one  else  had 
begun  to  speak.  .  .  . 

The  statistics  that  the  next  speaker  of 
fered  were  necessary  enough,  no  doubt, 
Neely  thought,  but  they  were  uninteresting. 
So  much  money  would  support  one  mission- 

[109] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

ary  for  one  year,  so  much  would  create  a 
permanent  foundation.  These  big  figures 
would  probably  interest  rich  people,  Neely 
thought,  but  "as  far  as  we're  concerned  they 
might  as  well  be  a  million."  .  .  .  How 
funny  Alice  was  about  her  money!  Appar 
ently  she  didn't  take  it  in  that  she  was  rich. 
She  wondered  whether  she  "could"  give 
five  dollars!  "She  could  give  fifty  and  not 
know  it,"  he  thought,  comfortably.  It  oc 
curred  to  him  that  it  might  be  a  sort  of 
salve  to  her  poor  aching  conscience  to  give 
fifty  dollars.  "I'll  suggest  it  to  her,"  he 
thought;  and  when  the  statistical  speaker 
sat  down,  having  pleaded  for  a  "founda 
tion,"  he  leaned  over  and  said,  lavishly, 
"Why  don't  you  give  a  hundred  dollars, 
Alice?"  He  meant  to  say  fifty  dollars,  but 
somehow  the  "hundred"  slipped  out. 

"I'd  like  to,"  she  said;  and  added,  sud 
denly,  between  set  teeth,  "Every  cent  I 
have  in  the  world;  every  cent!" 

Neely,  startled  at  the  smothered  violence 
of  her  voice,  looked  at  her — and  as  he  did  so 

a  thought  leaped  into  his  mind.  .  .  . 
[no] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

When  the  meeting  was  over  they  were 
both,  as  they  walked  up  the  hill,  rather 
silent.  As  they  paused  to  look  at  the  great 
bronze  memorial  opposite  the  State  House, 
Neely  said,  abruptly:  "Hold  on;  I  want  to 
talk.  Let's  go  and  sit  down  on  one  of  those 
benches  on  the  Common." 

They  found  a  bench  under  an  elm,  and 
sat  there  in  the  deepening  violet  of  the  Oc 
tober  dusk;  but,  in  spite  of  his  wish  to  talk, 
Neely  at  first  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  say, 
and  Alice  was  listless  again.  Across  the 
Common  lights  pricked  out  of  the  shadows ; 
in  front  of  them,  on  the  path,  people  went  to 
and  fro.  A  little  vagrant  dog  came  and 
leaned  his  head  on  Alice's  knee.  She  stroked 
his  ears  absently. 

"How  much  did  that  statistical  man  say 
it  would  take  to  keep  a  missionary  going  for 
a  year?"  Neely  asked,  suddenly. 

Alice  told  him.  Apparently  his  question 
gave  speech  to  some  inarticulate  pain,  for 
she  broke  out,  half  sobbing: 

"I  keep  thinking—" 

"I  know  you  do,"  he  said, 
[in] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

He  took  her  hand  and  patted  it  anx 
iously  ;  he  knew  only  too  well  what  she  "kept 
thinking."  "Alice,  you  know  I  wouldn't 
lie  to  you?"  he  said;  "you  know  that,  dear? 
So  listen  when  I  say:  'You  did  right  not 
to  ^o.'"  (Oh, how  many, many  times  he  had 
told  her  that !)  "You  had  to  stay  at  home." 

"No.  Down  deep,  I  know  I  didn't  have 
to.  Cousin  Mary  would  have  taken  care  of 
father,  if  I — if  I  had  stood  firm.  But  .  .  . 
I  didn't.  I  didn't  want  to  go.  ...  I  was 
glad — glad  of  an  excuse  to  stay !  It  is  like 
a  debt  I  haven't  paid." 

"Alice,  wasn't  there  a  debt  of  duty  to 
your  father?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  make  you  understand,"  she 
said,  despairingly;  "and  you  are  the  only 
person  in  the  world  I  want  to  have  under 
stand."  Her  hand  on  the  dog's  head  trem 
bled.  "Oh,"  she  said,  "if  I  could  only 

pay-" 

"  I've  been  thinking  that,  myself,"  he  said. 

"If  I  could  give  some  money, — it  would 
be — something. ' ' 

"You  can,  dear,  of  course.  That's  what  I 

[112] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

meant  when  I  said  give  a  hundred  dollars. 
But,  Alice,  you  can  give  more  than  that — if 
you'd  be  happier." 

"Oh,  Neely!" 

"You  can  give  all  you  want  to,"  he  told 
her,  gently.  ("I'd  rather," he  was  saying  to 
himself,  "pay  all  I'm  worth — pay  'every 
cent  I  have  in  the  world' — than  have  her 
eyes  so — so  like  that  dog's."  He  could  not 
bear  the  pain  in  her  eyes !)  "Alice,"  he  said, 
slowly,  "it  occurred  to  me,  when  that  man 
was  speaking,  that  if  you  sent  out  a  mis 
sionary  for  a  year,  you  would  be  happier." 

She  nodded,  clasping  her  hands  to  her 
breast  in  speechless  assent. 

Neely  pulled  the  puppy's  ears  and  sighed. 
("The  only  thing  is,"  he  was  thinking,  "it 
will  probably  flare  up  again — all  this  re 
morse — in  a  year.)  .  .  .  Shall  we  give  our 
balance,  Alice?  Every  cent  of  it  wouldn't 
be  too  much  if  it  made  you  happy.  If  you 
were  just — satisfied!  I've  never  really  had 
you,  you  know." 

"No,"  she  agreed,  "I  know  you  haven't. 
But" — she  looked  at  him  with  dilating 

[113] 


THE  'PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

eyes,  her  hands  still  gripped  together  on 
her  breast — "  if  you  could — buy  me,  Neely?" 

"I  will,"  he  said,  soberly.  "Alice,  you 
know  just  what  our  balance  is.  Take  any 
of  it — take  all  of  it ! — and  give  me  back  all 
your  mind.  I  know  I  have  your  heart, 
honey;  but  I  want  all  your  mind.  All  your 
little  thoughts!  I  want  you  to  be  at  peace." 

For  a  minute  Alice  could  not  speak,  her 
lips  trembled  so;  then  she  said,  "All?" 

He  smiled  and  nodded.  She  caught  his 
hand  in  both  of  hers  and  kissed  it.  "Don't, 
dear!  Don't!"  he  said,  pulling  it  away. 
There  were  tears  on  her  face,  and  his  own 
eyes  stung. 

The  little  dog  suddenly  stood  on  his  hind 
legs  and  licked  Alice's  cheek.  Neely  patted 
him.  "Nice  little  chap,"  he  said,  huskily. 
A  minute  later,  when  they  got  up  silently,  to 
walk  home,  the  puppy  followed,  unrebuked. 

("But  how  long  will  just  the  balance  keep 
her  happy?"  Neely  asked  himself,  and 
sighed.) 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WILLIAM  ALDEN  and  Cousin  Mary 
had  skipped  that  last  meeting  and 
were  back  again  in  Cousin  Mary's 
sitting-room,  where  the  afternoon  sunshine 
filtered  through  the  row  of  geraniums  in  the 
south  window.  "  I  couldn't  stand  three  con 
ferences;  I'd  get  spiritual  indigestion  from 
so  much  talkee-talkee,"  said  the  minister. 

"I  don't  get  indigestion,  exactly,"  said 
Cousin  Mary;  "only,  there's  nothing  I  can 
do  about  the  salvation  of  the  world — until 
I  die.  Then  I  can  leave  'em  something  in 
my  will.  But  meantime  it  just  makes  me 
unhappy ;  so  why  should  I  go  and  hear  how 
much  (what  I  haven't  got  to  give!)  is 
needed?" 

"What  I  particularly  admire  about  you, 
Mary,  is  your  common  sense." 

"That  shows  how  old  you  are  getting, 

[115] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

William,"  she  retorted;    "only  age  admires 
common  sense!" 

"Oh  yes;  I'm  old,"  he  admitted.  They 
both  laughed.  "Mary,"  he  said,  medita 
tively,  "I'm  not  only  old,  I'm  selfish.  I 
could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  wish  that  you 
were  not  going  to  Europe." 

"Think  I'm  too  young  and  lovely  to 
travel  alone?"  said  Miss  Alden. 

"I'm  talking  seriously — and  selfishly.  If 
you  weren't  going,  I  really  think  I'd  be  fool 
enough  to — to  make  a  suggestion." 

"What's  your  suggestion?" 

"The  children — if  I  wasn't  a  millstone 
around  their  necks! — could  have  their  own 
home,  now  that  Alice  has  this  little  fortune." 

"Is  that  your  suggestion?  .  .  .  They 
won't  leave  you." 

"  No,  they  won't.    Alice's  sense  of  duty— 
I  don't  enjoy  being  a  sense  of  duty,  Mary; — 
keeps  them  with  me." 

She  admitted  that  feeling  you  were  a 
"duty"  wasn't  pleasant.  "But there's  noth 
ing  you  can  do  about  it,  that  I  can  see,"  she 
said. 

[116] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"If  you  weren't  going  to  Europe,  there 
might  be  something." 

She  looked  puzzled.  "  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean?" 

"I  mean,  if  I  didn't  'set  your  teeth  on 
edge,'  I  might — well,  cease  to  be  a  sense  of 
duty — to  Alice." 

"What!" 

"Oh,  of  course,  I'm  not  suggesting  it, 
exactly.  Only — " 

Her  blank  astonishment  brought  the 
color  into  his  face.  He  drew  his  chair  up 
to  hers  and  laid  a  -cousinly  hand  on  her 
arm.  "Look  here,"  he  began;  "I've  been 
thinking  of  it  ever  since  Alice  had  this 
money  left  to  her.  I  am  not  suggesting  it, 
remember;  but  it  would  be — for  me,  of 
course  —  just  common  sense.  Common 
sense,  and — and  affection.  I  suppose  you'd 
laugh  to  have  a  man  of  nearly  sixty  say  he 
was  in  love.  So  I  won't  say  it.  But  I 
haven't  forgotten  what  happened  twenty- 
nine  years  ago,  though  you  probably  have. 
And  you  could  say  'darn  it'  all  you  wanted 
to,"  he  ended,  wistfully. 

9  [117] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

She  was  silent.  Then,  slowly:  ''William, 
once  bitten,  twice  shy.  I  was  brazen  enough 
once  to  suggest  some  such  arrangement  to 
you,  and  as  things  turned  out — " 

"Well,  they  couldn't  turn  out  that  way 
again.  Alice  is  married;  it  would  only  set 
her  free.  As  far  as  affording  to  live  by 
themselves  goes,  her  money  will  make  it 
perfectly  possible." 

She  laughed,  and  said,  "Well—"  then 
broke  off:  "Hush!  Here  they  come.  ...  A 
good  meeting,  young  people?  Did  you  hear 
Miss  Heath?  Heavens! — what  is  this?  A 
dog?" 

"He  followed  us,"  Neely  said.  "Miss 
Heath  is  wonderful!"  The  elation  in  his 
voice  and  face  was  in  striking  contrast  to 
the  depression  of  the  night  before.  As  for 
Alice,  she  looked  like  one  in  a  dream.  She 
said,  vaguely,  something  about  Miss  Heath, 
and  would  Cousin  Mary  please  let  the  puppy 
stay  in  the  back  yard?  Then  she  looked  at 
her  husband  and  tried  to  speak.  "  Neely  is— 
good,"  she  said;  her  voice  shook  with  the 
passion  of  her  praise — "good."  Then  she 

[118] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

slipped  out  of  the  room.  Again  the  three 
people  who  loved  her  looked  at  one  another; 
but  this  time  only  the  two  elders  were  puz 
zled.  Neely  was  radiant. 

"I  don't  think  Alice  will  ever  be  morbid 
again,  sir,  about  missionaries,"  he  told  Mr. 
Alden. 

"  I  wish  I  hadn't  suggested  that  she  should 
go  to  these  meetings,"  the  minister  said. 

"We  have  a  plan,"  Neely  said;  "but  I 
mustn't  tell  you.  It's  her  affair." 

"Good  gracious,  Neely!"  Cousin  Mary 
broke  in;  "that  child  hasn't  any  bee  in  her 
bonnet  about  going  off  missionarying?  Will 
iam,  we  ought  not  to  have  let  her  hear  that 
Heath  woman!" 

But  Cornelius  made  haste  to  reassure  her. 
"No;  no!  That's  all  over  with.  She'll  get 
square  with  her  conscience — in  her  own  way. 
And  then  she'll  be  perfectly  happy." 

That  was  all  they  could  get  out  of  him. 
"May  I  take  this  animal  down  to  the 
kitchen,  Cousin  Mary,  and  give  him  some 
supper?"  he  said;  and,  picking  up  the 
puppy,  he  vanished. 

[119] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"Well!"  said  William  Alden,  turning  im 
patiently  to  his  cousin, — he  was  too  ab 
sorbed  in  his  own  affairs  to  pay  much  atten 
tion  to  his  son-in-law.  He  waited  until  he 
heard  the  young  man  going  up-stairs,  then 
began  again,  just  where  he  had  been  inter 
rupted:  "They  will  have  money  enough 
now;  so,  if  it  wasn't  for  Europe,  I — I 
would  have  got  my  courage  up  to  ask  you 
before  this,  if —  I  wouldn't  interfere  with 
your  plans  for  the  world.  But  perhaps 
when  you  come  back — " 

Miss  Alden  shook  her  head.  "Oh,  I  had 
an  idea  of  settling  down  over  there  for  two 
or  three  years." 

"I  knew  you'd  feel  that  way,"  he  said, 
despondently. 

"I  haven't  said  how  I  feel,"  she  mur 
mured.  ("If  that  dog  scares  my  cat,  I'll 
shake  Neely!)  It  would  be  too  foolish 
for  people  of  our  age  to  be  engaged,"  she 
said. 

He  gave  a  gasp  of  hope.  "We  needn't  be 
engaged;  we  can  just  be  married — to-mor 
row."  He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  squeezed 

[120] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

it  hard.  "But  no!  You  are  going  to  Eu 
rope." 

"Well,  I'm  not  there  yet!  Don't  squeeze 
my  hand  so.  You  hurt  me.  And — and  per 
haps  the  boat  won't  sail." 

"It  would  set  Alice  and  Neely  free!" 

"You  seem  terribly  anxious  about  the 
children,"  she  evaded. 

At  which  he  put  a  sudden  arm  round  her. 
"Hang  the  children!" 

"William !  That's  as  bad  as  ' darn  it !'  and 
you  know  that  was  why  I  said  'no'  in  the 
first  place." 

"  I  want  you  to  marry  me  on  my  own  ac 
count  !  If  you  can  give  up  Europe — " 

That  night  the  house  on  the  hill,  with  the 
front  hall  full  of  trunks,  and  the  rugs  rolled 
up,  and  the  curtains  taken  down,  was 
divided  into  two  friendly  but  uncommuni 
cative  and  very  taciturn  camps.  Neely  sat 
at  Miss  Alden's  desk,  studying  a  handful 
of  missionary  reports  and  putting  down  fig 
ures.  Alice  amused  herself  with  the  puppy. 
Mr.  Alden  and  Cousin  Mary  played  back- 

[1211 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

gammon.  When  they  all  said  good  night  to 
one  another,  Cousin  Mary  looked  at  Mr. 
Alden  and  said,  "But  what  shall  I  do  with 
all  this  furniture?" — a  remark  which  had  no 
meaning  to  Neely  and  Alice.  And  Neely, 
thrusting  a  sheaf  of  reports  into  his  pocket, 
said:  "They'd  have  to  get  five  per  cent,  to 
do  it;" — a  remark  which  had  no  meaning  to 
Cousin  Mary  and  Mr.  Alden. 

The  next  day — a  yellow  October  day  of 
haze,  deepening  into  a  gentle  rain — was  very 
busy  for  them  all. 

"We'll  surprise  'em!"  Mr.  Alden  told 
Cousin  Mary;  and  spent  a  busy  morning 
between  the  mayor's  office  and  a  jewelry- 
store. 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  surprise  the  steamship 
office,"  she  said,  drolly.  "I'll  go  down  there 
this  morning  and  see  what  they  can  do  for 
me.  William,  I  do  hope  we  are  not  a  couple 
of  old  fools?" 

"  We  are  a  couple  of  very  sensible  people," 
he  reassured  her — and  hurried  out  into  the 
rain.  She  ran  to  the  front  door  and  called 
after  him: 

[122] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"Do  you  think  it's  sensible  not  to  take  an 
umbrella?  William,  you  do  need  looking 
after!" 

Neely  and  Alice  were  sensible  enough  to 
remember  an  umbrella,  and  Neely  also 
remembered  to  feed  his  dog.  "I'll  crate  him 
and  send  him  back  to  West  Meadows  to 
morrow,"  he  said. 

Then  he  and  Alice  started  off.  "We  are 
going  to  the  morning  conference,"  Neely 
vouchsafed  to  the  other  two. 

"Those  children  have  conferences  on  the 
brain,"  said  Mr.  Alden,  uneasily.  But  Neely 
had  no  uneasiness. 

"Dear,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  when  they 
were  once  clear  of  Cousin  Mary's  front  door, 
"I  have  thought  of  something."  Then  he 
said,  softly,  in  her  ear,  just  three  words: 
"  Give  your  money  " 

She  stood  stock  still  in  the  rain  and  stared 
at  him. 

"The  balance  would  only  keep  you  con 
tented  as  long  as  it  lasted.  Your  money 
would  last  always !  It  would  be  for  a  founda 
tion,"  he  explained. 

[123[ 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"Oh,"  she  said,  faintly;  "you  don't — you 
can't — love  me  like — like  that?" 

"  I  do !  More.  Fifty  thousand  times  more ! 
What  is  money,  anyhow,  compared  to  your 
happiness?"  Then,  as  they  began  to  climb 
the  hill,  he  told  her  in  detail  what  a  "founda 
tion"  would  mean.  "I  have  thought  it  all 
out,"  he  ended;  "I  stayed  awake  'most  all 
night,  thinking  it  out.  There  can  always  be 
an  'Alice'  missionary,  if  you  want  to  have 
her." 

"It  would  be  the  same  as  if  /  had  gone? 
For  all  my  life?" 

"Just  the  same.  Better,  if  anything,  be 
cause  you  see  it  would  go  on  always ;  which 
is  more  than  you  could  have  done.  And" — 
he  gave  her  a  droll  look — "and  really  I  don't 
think  you  were  cut  out  for  a  missionary, 
darling." 

Alice's  face  was  rigid. 

"  Neely,  I  can't  bear  it !  I  am  not  worth  it. 
To  be  loved — like  that!"  Again  she  stood 
still,  clutching  at  his  arm,  and  he  saw  that 
she  was  trembling  very  much.  "Oh,  if  I 
could  give  it !  If  I  could !" 

[1241 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"You  can.    It's  yours." 

"But  the  quarry?" 

"I  can  swing  the  quarry.  And  we  have 
the  balance.  And  we  won't  be  a  bit  poorer 
than  we  were  yesterday  morning.  And  as 
long  as  Mr.  Alden  needs  us,  we  have  a  house, 
too.  That  sounds  as  if  I  counted  on  living  on 
my  father-in-law,"  he  said,  chuckling;  "but 
you  understand." 

"Oh,  myNeely!  My  Neely!" 

"I  think,"  said  Cornelius,  "that  we  won't 
tell  any  one.  Your  father  might  not  under 
stand." 

"He  couldn't.   Nobody  could — but  you." 

They  had  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  by 
this  time,  and  Alice  stopped.  "May  I  make 
the  check  out  here?"  she  said. 

"Here?    In  the  rain?" 

She  nodded.  They  were  in  front  of  the 
great  bronze  memorial,  shining  and  drip 
ping  in  the  rain,  and,  pausing,  Alice  took 
out  her  little  long,  thin  book,  full  of  "pieces 
of  paper,"  then,  with  Neely 's  fountain  pen, 
wrote  her  first  and  last  check.  "Oh,"  she 
said,  handing  the  pen  back  to  him,  "to 

[125] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

think  you  are  willing  to  pay  that — for  such 
a  poor  little  thing  as  I  am!" 

"Honey,"  said  Neely,  putting  the  pen 
back  in  his  pocket,  "peace  of  mind  is  cheap 
at  ten  thousand  dollars!"  As  they  walked 
down  to  the  church  he  gave  her  a  note 
which  he  said  she  must  pin  to  her  check, 
stating  that  it  was  an  endowment  for  a 
permanent  fund,  and  that  the  donor  wished 
to  be  anonymous.  "Would  you  like,"  he 
said,  gently,  "to  call  it  by  your  mother's 
name, 'Ellen'?" 

In  a  whisper  Alice  said,  "Never,  never 
in  the  world  was  there  anybody  who  ever 
lived,  like  you,  Neely.  ..." 

They  were  so  early  that  there  was  only 
a  handful  of  people  scattered  about  the 
church;  they  sat  down  very  close  together, 
in  a  pew  from  which  Alice  could  look 
through  the  streaming  window-panes  at  the 
old  burial-ground;  now  and  then  a  yellow 
linden  leaf  drifted  down,  falling  sometimes 
on  one  of  the  gray  headstones,  sometimes  on 
the  bleached  grass  over  the  sunken  graves. 
After  a  while  Neely  saw  her  take  the  check  - 

[126] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

book  out  of  her  little  bag  and  pin  his  ex 
planatory  note  to  her  check ;  then  she  looked 
at  him,  and  worshiped! 

She  held  the  book  in  her  hand  all  through 
the  service,  and  at  the  long  prayer,  when 
she  bowed  her  forehead  on  the  back  of  the 
next  seat,  he  thought,  looking  at  her  out  of 
the  corner  of  his  eye,  that  she  took  the 
check — rain-spattered  from  that  pause  be 
fore  the  Shaw  Memorial — and  held  it  to  her 
lips.  When  the  prayer  ended  she  fumbled 
for  his  hand  and  pressed  the  check  into  his 
fingers.  "  You  put  it  inlo  the  collection- 
box." 

"No,"  he  whispered  back;  "it's  yours, 
dear." 

But  she  shook  her  head.  "  You  are  pay 
ing,"  she  said. 

He  was  deeply  happy ;  safe  in  his  hand, 
waiting  for  the  contribution -box,  which,  on 
the  end  of  a  long  pole,  was  coming  down 
the  aisle,  raking  each  pew  on  its  way,  was 
the  price  of  peace.  As  it  reached  them 
he  heard  Alice  catch  her  breath,  saw  her 
bite  her  lip  and  lean  forward ;  her  eyes  were 

[127] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

stern  with  joy.  He  looked  at  her,  smiled, 
lifted  his  eyebrows  in  one  last  question: 
"Sure  you  want  to?"  And  as  she  nodded, 
passionately,  he  dropped  the  check  into  the 
box.  Then  he  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  held 
it  quietly.  "She's  mine  now,"  he  said  to 
himself.  His  eyes  were  triumphant. 

"  I  am  happy,"  she  said,  under  her  breath. 


CHAPTER   IX 

"X/OU  tell  'em,  William!"    said  Cousin 
Y     Mary. 

"No,  you    tell    them,"  said  the 
minister. 

They  were  standing  up  in  the  dismantled 
sitting-room,  smiling  and  conscious,  and 
enormously  pleased  with  themselves. 

"Well,  young  people,"  Cousin  Mary  be 
gan;  "you  can  set  up  shop  by  yourselves." 

"Alice,"  William  Alden  said,  "you  and 
Neely  can  go  out  to  the  shack.  Cousin 
Mary  and  I  are  married,  and — " 

"Married!" 

"Married?" 

"But  she's  going  to  Europe!"  Alice 
gasped. 

"So  you  needn't  have  me  on  your  con 
sciences,"  said  William  Alden. 

"Oh—"  said  Alice. 

Just  for  a  minute  Neely  was  pale. 

[129] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

"So,  you  see,  you  can  go  to  housekeeping 
by  yourselves,"  said  Cousin  Mary. 

"But  we  can't,"  said  Alice,  faintly. 

"We  will!"  Neely  said;  then  he  threw  up 
his  hands  and  doubled  over  with  laughter. 
"O  Lord!"  he  said.  "I'm  glad  I  didn't 
know  it  this  morning!" 

"Know  what?"  said  Cousin  Mary. 

"That  we  could  go  off  and  live  in  the 
shack.  It  might"  —said  Neely,  wiping  the 
tears  of  laughter  from  his  eyes — "it  might 
have  taken  my  mind  off  the  service.  But 
I'm  perfectly  delighted,"  he  said.  Alice  said 
nothing  until  he  pinched  her  and  whispered : 
"Dummy!  It's  all  right.  Look  pleased!" 
At  which  she  smiled  and  kissed  the  bride 
and  said  she  was  "delighted." 

"  The  steamship  people  took  over  my  tick 
ets,"  said  Miss  Alden  (no — Mrs.  Alden!), 
"and  I  sold  my  steamer  rug;  I  consider  I 
got  a  bargain!  Now  all  I  have  to  do  is  to 
arrange  to  send  the  furniture  I  was  going  to 
store,  up  to  West  Meadows;  for  we'll  need 
it  at  the  parsonage  when  you  take  your 
things  away,  Alice.  I  should  think  you'd 

[130] 


THE    PROMISES    OF    ALICE 

add  a  little  ell  to  the  shack?  You  have 
money  enough." 

"I've  spent  more  money  than  I  had  any 
business  to  on  books,"  said  Mr.  Alden; 
"but  I  got  one  or  two  bargains  myself.  This 
thing  of  having  money  come  into  the  family 
seems  to  have  made  me  reckless.  Cousin 
Mary  and  I  are  going  back  to  West  Mead 
ows  to-morrow,  young  people.  But  I  sup 
pose  you  two  rich  folks  will  continue  to  blow 
in  your  fortune  down  here  for  a  day  or  two?" 

"We've  blown  in  all  we  want  to,  thank 
you,"  said  Cornelius;  "so  we'll  go  home, 
too — but  we  got  something  of  a  bargain 
ourselves!" 


THE   END 


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